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THE  NOVELS  AND  STORIES  OF 
RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 


CROSSROADS  EDITION 
VOLUME  II 


THE  EXILES 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 


BY 

RICHARD   HARDING   DAVIS 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1916 


"The  Exiles"  and  "The  Boy  Orator  of  Zepata  City" 
from  "  The  Exiles,"  copyright,  1884,  by  HARPER  & 
BROTHERS.  

'The  Other  Woman"  from  "Gallegher,"  copyright,  1891, 
by  CHARLES  SCRIBNBR'S  SONS;  "  On  the  Fever  Ship," 
"The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn,"  and  "The  Last  Ride 
Together  "  from  "  The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn,"  copyright, 
1899,  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNBR'S  SONS;  "  Miss  Delamar's 
Understudy"  and  "The  Reporter  Who  Made  Himself 
King  "  from  "  Cinderella,"  copyright,  1896,  by  CHARLES 
SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


College 
Library 

?9 
\52o 
A2 


TO 
MY   FRIEND 

J.  DAVIS   BRODHEAD 


DICK  was  twenty-four  years  old  when  he  came 
into  the  smoking-room  of  the  Victoria  Hotel,  in 
London,  after  midnight  one  July  night — he  was 
dressed  as  a  Thames  boatman. 

He  had  been  rowing  up  and  down  the  river  since 
sundown,  looking  for  color.  He  had  evidently  peo 
pled  every  dark  corner  with  a  pirate,  and  every 
floating  object  had  meant  something  to  him.  He 
had  adventure  written  all  over  him.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  ever  seen  him,  and  I  had  never 
heard  of  him.  I  can't  now  recall  another  figure  in 
that  smoke-filled  room.  I  don't  remember  who 
introduced  us — over  twenty-seven  years  have  passed 
since  that  night.  But  I  can  see  Dick  now  dressed 
in  a  rough  brown  suit,  a  soft  hat,  with  a  handker 
chief  about  his  neck,  a  splendid,  healthy,  clean- 
minded,  gifted  boy  at  play.  And  so  he  always 
remained. 

His  going  out  of  this  world  seemed  like  a  boy  in 
terrupted  in  a  game  he  loved.  And  how  well  and 
fairly  he  played  it !  Surely  no  one  deserved  success 
more  than  Dick.  And  it  is  a  consolation  to  know 
he  had  more  than  fifty  years  of  just  what  he  wanted. 

vii 


THE   FIRST   GLIMPSE   OF   DAVIS 

He  had  health,  a  great  talent,  and  personal  charm. 
There  never  was  a  more  loyal  or  unselfish  friend. 
There  wasn't  an  atom  of  envy  in  him.  He  had 
unbounded  mental  and  physical  courage,  and  with 
it  all  he  was  sensitive  and  sometimes  shy.  He  often 
tried  to  conceal  these  last  two  qualities,  but  never 
succeeded  in  doing  so  from  those  of  us  who  were 
privileged  really  to  know  and  love  him. 

His  life  was  filled  with  just  the  sort  of  adventure 
he  liked  the  best.  No  one  ever  saw  more  wars  in 
so  many  different  places  or  got  more  out  of  them. 
And  it  took  the  largest  war  in  all  history  to  wear 
out  that  stout  heart. 

We  shall  miss  him. 

CHARLES  DANA  GIBSON. 


VIII 


CONTENTS 

The  First  Glimpse  of  Davis      .    .      Charles  Dana  Gibson 


PAGE 

THE    EXILES I 

THE    BOY   ORATOR   OF   ZEPATA    CITY  ....  72 

THE   OTHER    WOMAN 94 

ON   THE    FEVER   SHIP Il8 

THE    LION   AND   THE    UNICORN 144 

THE   LAST   RIDE   TOGETHER 204 

MISS   DELAMAR'S    UNDERSTUDY 214 

THE    REPORTER    WHO    MADE    HIMSELF    KING  249 


THE  EXILES 
I 

THE  greatest  number  of  people  in  the  world 
prefer  the  most  highly  civilized  places  of  the 
world,  because  they  know  what  sort  of  things 
are  going  to  happen  there,  and  because  they 
also  know  by  experience  that  those  are  the  sort 
of  things  they  like.  A  very  few  people  prefer 
barbarous  and  utterly  uncivilized  portions  of 
the  globe  for  the  reason  that  they  receive  while 
there  new  impressions,  and  because  they  like 
the  unexpected  better  than  a  routine  of  exis 
tence,  no  matter  how  pleasant  that  routine  may 
be.  But  the  most  interesting  places  of  all  to 
study  are  those  in  which  the  savage  and  the 
cultivated  man  lie  down  together  and  try  to 
live  together  in  unity.  This  is  so  because  we 
can  learn  from  such  places  just  how  far  a  man 
of  cultivation  lapses  into  barbarism  when  he 
associates  with  savages,  and  how  far  the  rem 
nants  of  his  former  civilization  will  have  in 
fluence  upon  the  barbarians  among  whom  he 
has  come  to  live. 

There  are  many  such  colonies  as  these,  and 
they  are  the  most  picturesque  plague-spots  on 

i 


THE  EXILES 

the  globe.  You  will  find  them  in  New  Zealand 
and  at  Yokohama,  in  Algiers,  Tunis,  and  Tan 
gier,  and  scattered  thickly  all  along  the  South 
American  coast-line  wherever  the  law  of  extra 
dition  obtains  not,  and  where  public  opinion, 
which  is  one  of  the  things  a  colony  can  do 
longest  without,  is  unknown.  These  are  the 
unofficial  Botany  Bays  and  Melillas  of  the 
world,  where  the  criminal  goes  of  his  own  ac 
cord,  and  not  because  his  government  has 
urged  him  to  do  so  and  paid  his  passage  there. 
This  is  the  story  of  a  young  man  who  went 
to  such  a  place  for  the  benefit  he  hoped  it  would 
be  to  his  health,  and  not  because  he  had  robbed 
any  one,  or  done  a  young  girl  an  injury.  He 
was  the  only  son  of  Judge  Henry  Howard  Hoi- 
combe,  of  New  York.  That  was  all  that  it 
was  generally  considered  necessary  to  say  of 
him.  It  was  not,  however,  quite  enough,  for, 
while  his  father  had  had  nothing  but  the  right 
and  the  good  of  his  State  and  country  to  think 
about,  the  son  was  further  occupied  by  trying 
to  live  up  to  his  father's  name.  Young  Hoi- 
combe  was  impressed  by  this  fact  from  his 
earliest  childhood.  It  rested  upon  him  while 
at  Harvard  and  during  his  years  at  the  law 
school,  and  it  went  with  him  into  society  and 
into  the  courts  of  law.  When  he  rose  to  plead 
a  case  he  did  not  forget,  nor  did  those  present 

2 


THE   EXILES 

forget,  that  his  father  while  alive  had  crowded 
those  same  halls  with  silent,  earnest  listeners; 
and  when  he  addressed  a  mass-meeting  at 
Cooper  Union,  or  spoke  from  the  back  of  a  cart 
in  the  East  Side,  some  one  was  sure  to  refer  to 
the  fact  that  this  last  speaker  was  the  son  of 
the  man  who  was  mobbed  because  he  had  dared 
to  be  an  abolitionist,  and  who  later  had  received 
the  veneration  of  a  great  city  for  his  bitter 
fight  against  Tweed  and  his  followers. 

Young  Holcombe  was  an  earnest  member  of 
every  reform  club  and  citizens'  league,  and  his 
distinguished  name  gave  weight  as  a  director  to 
charitable  organizations  and  free  kindergartens. 
He  had  inherited  his  hatred  of  Tammany  Hall, 
and  was  unrelenting  in  his  war  upon  it  and  its 
handiwork,  and  he  spoke  of  it  and  of  its  immedi 
ate  downfall  with  the  bated  breath  of  one  who, 
though  amazed  at  the  wickedness  of  the  thing 
he  fights,  is  not  discouraged  nor  afraid.  And 
he  would  listen  to  no  half-measures.  Had  not 
his  grandfather  quarrelled  with  Henry  Clay, 
and  so  shaken  the  friendship  of  a  lifetime,  be 
cause  of  a  great  compromise  which  he  could 
not  countenance?  And  was  his  grandson  to 
truckle  and  make  deals  with  this  hideous  octo 
pus  that  was  sucking  the  life-blood  from  the 
city's  veins?  Had  he  not  but  yesterday  dis 
tributed  six  hundred  circulars,  calling  for  honest 

3 


THE  EXILES 

government,  to  six  hundred  possible  voters,  all 
the  way  up  Fourth  Avenue? — and  when  some 
flippant  one  had  said  that  he  might  have  hired 
a  messenger-boy  to  have  done  it  for  him  and 
so  saved  his  energies  for  something  less  mechan 
ical,  he  had  rebuked  the  speaker  with  a  re 
proachful  stare  and  turned  away  in  silence. 

Life  was  terribly  earnest  to  young  Holcombe, 
and  he  regarded  it  from  the  point  of  view  of  one 
who  looks  down  upon  it  from  the  judge's  bench, 
and  listens  with  a  frown  to  those  who  plead  its 
cause.  He  was  not  fooled  by  it;  he  was  alive  to 
its  wickedness  and  its  evasions.  He  would  tell 
you  that  he  knew  for  a  fact  that  the  window 
man  in  his  district  was  a  cousin  of  the  Tam 
many  candidate,  and  that  the  contractor  who 
had  the  cleaning  of  the  street  to  do  was  a 
brother-in-law  of  one  of  the  Hall's  sachems, 
and  that  the  policeman  on  his  beat  had  not 
been  in  the  country  eight  months.  He  spoke 
of  these  damning  facts  with  the  air  of  one  who 
simply  tells  you  that  much,  that  you  should 
see  how  terrible  the  whole  thing  really  was, 
and  what  he  could  tell  if  he  wished. 

In  his  own  profession  he  recognized  the 
trials  of  law-breakers  only  as  experiments 
which  went  to  establish  and  explain  a  general 
principle.  And  prisoners  were  not  men  to  him, 
but  merely  the  exceptions  that  proved  the 

4 


THE  EXILES 

excellence  of  a  rule.  Holcombe  would  defend 
the  lowest  creature  or  the  most  outrageous  of 
murderers,  not  because  the  man  was  a  human 
being  fighting  for  his  liberty  or  life,  but  because 
he  wished  to  see  if  certain  evidence  would  be 
admitted  in  the  trial  of  such  a  case.  Of  one 
of  his  clients  the  judge,  who  had  a  daughter  of 
his  own,  said,  when  he  sentenced  him,  "Were 
there  many  more  such  men  as  you  in  the  world, 
the  women  of  this  land  would  pray  to  God  to 
be  left  childless."  And  when  some  one  asked 
Holcombe,  with  ill-concealed  disgust,  how  he 
came  to  defend  the  man,  he  replied:  "I  wished 
to  show  the  unreliability  of  expert  testimony 
from  medical  men.  Yes;  they  tell  me  the  man 
was  a  very  bad  lot." 

It  was  measures,  not  men,  to  Holcombe,  and 
law  and  order  were  his  twin  goddesses,  and  "no 
compromise"  his  watchword. 

"You  can  elect  your  man  if  you'll  give  me 
two  thousand  dollars  to  refit  our  club-room 
with,"  one  of  his  political  acquaintances  once 
said  to  him.  "We've  five  hundred  voters  on 
the  rolls  now,  and  the  members  vote  as  one 
man.  You'd  be  saving  the  city  twenty  times 
that  much  if  you  keep  Croker's  man  out  of  the 
job.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"The  city  can  better  afford  to  lose  twenty 
thousand  dollars,"  Holcombe  answered,  "than 

5 


THE  EXILES 

we  can  afford  to  give  a  two-cent  stamp  for 
corruption.'* 

"All  right,"  said  the  heeler;  "all  right,  Mr. 
Holcombe.  Go  on.  Fight  'em  your  own  way. 
If  they'd  agree  to  fight  you  with  pamphlets 
and  circulars  you'd  stand  a  chance,  sir;  but  as 
long  as  they  give  out  money  and  you  give  out 
reading-matter  to  people  that  can't  read,  they'll 
win,  and  I  naturally  want  to  be  on  the  winning 
side." 

When  the  club  to  which  Holcombe  belonged 
finally  succeeded  in  getting  the  Police  Commis 
sioners  indicted  for  blackmailing  gambling- 
houses,  Holcombe  was,  as  a  matter  of  course 
and  of  public  congratulation,  on  the  side  of 
the  law;  and  as  Assistant  District  Attorney — 
a  position  given  him  on  account  of  his  father's 
name  and  in  the  hope  that  it  would  shut  his 
mouth — distinguished  himself  nobly. 

Of  the  four  commissioners,  three  were  con 
victed — the  fourth,  Patrick  Meakim,  with  ad 
mirable  foresight  having  fled  to  that  country 
from  which  few  criminals  return,  and  which  is 
vaguely  set  forth  in  the  newspapers  as  "parts 
unknown." 

The  trial  had  been  a  severe  one  upon  the 
zealous  Mr.  Holcombe,  who  found  himself  at 
the  end  of  it  in  a  very  bad  way,  with  nerves  un 
strung  and  brain  so  fagged  that  he  assented 

6 


THE  EXILES 

without  question  when  his  doctor  exiled  him 
from  New  York  by  ordering  a  sea  voyage,  with 
change  of  environment  and  rest  at  the  other 
end  of  it.  Some  one  else  suggested  the  northern 
coast  of  Africa  and  Tangier,  and  Holcombe 
wrote  minute  directions  to  the  secretaries  of 
all  of  his  reform  clubs  urging  continued  efforts 
on  the  part  of  his  fellow-workers,  and  sailed 
away  one  cold  winter's  morning  for  Gibraltar. 
The  great  sea  laid  its  hold  upon  him,  and  the 
winds  from  the  south  thawed  the  cold  in  his 
bones,  and  the  sun  cheered  his  tired  spirit.  He 
stretched  himself  at  full  length  reading  those 
books  which  one  puts  off  reading  until  illness 
gives  one  the  right  to  do  so,  and  so  far  as  in 
him  lay  obeyed  his  doctor's  first  command, 
that  he  should  forget  New  York  and  all  that 
pertained  to  it.  By  the  time  he  had  reached 
the  Rock  he  was  up  and  ready  to  drift  farther 
into  the  lazy,  irresponsible  life  of  the  Mediter 
ranean  coast,  and  he  had  forgotten  his  struggles 
against  municipal  misrule,  and  was  at  times 
for  hours  together  utterly  oblivious  of  his  own 
personality. 

A  dumpy,  fat  little  steamer  rolled  itself  along 
like  a  sailor  on  shore  from  Gibraltar  to  Tangier, 
and  Holcombe,  leaning  over  the  rail  of  its 
quarter-deck,  smiled  down  at  the  chattering 
group  of  Arabs  and  Moors  stretched  on  their 

7 


THE  EXILES 

rugs  beneath  him.  A  half-naked  negro,  pulling 
at  the  dates  in  the  basket  between  his  bare 
legs,  held  up  a  handful  to  him  with  a  laugh, 
and  Holcombe  laughed  back  and  emptied  the 
cigarettes  in  his  case  on  top  of  him,  and  laughed 
again  as  the  ship's  crew  and  the  deck  passen 
gers  scrambled  over  one  another  and  shook  out 
their  voluminous  robes  in  search  of  them.  He 
felt  at  ease  with  the  world  and  with  himself, 
and  turned  his  eyes  to  the  white  walls  of  Tangier 
with  a  pleasure  so  complete  that  it  shut  out 
even  the  thought  that  it  was  a  pleasure. 

The  town  seemed  one  continuous  mass  of 
white  stucco,  with  each  flat,  low-lying  roof  so 
close  to  the  other  that  the  narrow  streets  left 
no  trace.  To  the  left  of  it  the  yellow  coast 
line  and  the  green  olive-trees  and  palms  stretched 
up  against  the  sky,  and  beneath  him  scores  of 
shrieking  blacks  fought  in  their  boats  for  a 
place  beside  the  steamer's  companion-way.  He 
jumped  into  one  of  these  open  wherries  and 
fell  sprawling  among  his  baggage,  and  laughed 
lightly  as  a  boy  as  the  boatman  set  him  on  his 
feet  again,  and  then  threw  them  from  under 
him  with  a  quick  stroke  of  the  oars.  The 
high,  narrow  pier  was  crowded  with  excited 
customs  officers  in  ragged  uniforms  and  dirty 
turbans,  and  with  a  few  foreign  residents 
looking  for  arriving  passengers.  Holcombe  had 

8 


THE  EXILES 

his  feet  on  the  upper  steps  of  the  ladder,  and 
was  ascending  slowly.  There  was  a  fat,  heavily 
built  man  in  blue  serge  leaning  across  the 
railing  of  the  pier.  He  was  looking  down,  and 
as  his  eyes  met  Holcombe's  face  his  own  straight 
ened  into  lines  of  amazement  and  most  evident 
terror.  Holcombe  stopped  at  the  sight,  and 
stared  back  wondering.  And  then  the  lapping 
waters  beneath  him  and  the  white  town  at  his 
side  faded  away,  and  he  was  back  in  the  hot, 
crowded  court-room  with  this  man's  face  before 
him.  Meakim,  the  fourth  of  the  Police  Com 
missioners,  confronted  him,  and  saw  in  his 
presence  nothing  but  a  menace  to  himself. 

Holcombe  came  up  the  last  steps  of  the 
stairs,  and  stopped  at  their  top.  His  instinct 
and  life's  tradition  made  him  despise  the  man, 
and  to  this  was  added  the  selfish  disgust  that 
his  holiday  should  have  been  so  soon  robbed  of 
its  character  by  this  reminder  of  all  that  he  had 
been  told  to  put  behind  him. 

Meakim  swept  off  his  hat  as  though  it  were 
hurting  him,  •  and  showed  the  great  drops  of 
sweat  on  his  forehead. 

"For  God's  sake!"  the  man  panted,  "you 
can't  touch  me  here,  Mr.  Holcombe.  I'm  safe 
here;  they  told  me  I'd  be.  You  can't  take 
me.  You  can't  touch  me." 

Holcombe  stared  at  the  man  coldly,  and  with 

9 


THE  EXILES 

a  touch  of  pity  and  contempt.  "That  is  quite 
right,  Mr.  Meakim,"  he  said.  "The  law  cannot 
reach  you  here." 

"Then  what  do  you  want  with  me?"  the  man 
demanded,  forgetful  in  his  terror  of  anything 
but  his  own  safety. 

Holcombe  turned  upon  him  sharply.  "I  am 
not  here  on  your  account,  Mr.  Meakim,"  he  said. 
"You  need  not  feel  the  least  uneasiness,  and," 
he  added,  dropping  his  voice  as  he  noticed 
that  others  were  drawing  near,  "if  you  keep 
out  of  my  way,  I  shall  certainly  keep  out  of 
yours." 

The  Police  Commissioner  gave  a  short  laugh 
partly  of  bravado  and  partly  at  his  own  sudden 
terror.  "I  didn't  know,"  he  said,  breathing 
with  relief.  "I  thought  you'd  come  after  me. 
You  don't  wonder  you  give  me  a  turn,  do  you? 
I  was  scared."  He  fanned  himself  with  his 
straw  hat,  and  ran  his  tongue  over  his  lips. 
"Going  to  be  here  some  time,  Mr.  District 
Attorney?"  he  added,  with  grave  politeness. 

Holcombe  could  not  help  but  smile  at  the 
absurdity  of  it.  It  was  so  like  what  he  would 
have  expected  of  Meakim  and  his  class  to  give 
every  office-holder  his  full  title.  "No,  Mr. 
Police  Commissioner,"  he  answered,  grimly, 
and  nodding  to  his  boatmen,  pushed  his  way 
after  them  and  his  trunks  along  the  pier. 

10 


THE  EXILES 

Meakim  was  waiting  for  him  as  he  left  the 
custom-house.  He  touched  his  hat,  and  bent 
the  whole  upper  part  of  his  fat  body  in  an  awk 
ward  bow.  "Excuse  me,  Mr.  District  Attor 
ney,"  he  began. 

"Oh,  drop  that,  will  you?"  snapped  Hoi- 
combe.  "Now,  what  is  it  you  want,  Meakim?" 

"I  was  only  going  to  say,"  answered  the 
fugitive,  with  some  offended  dignity,  "that  as 
I've  been  here  longer  than  you,  I  could  perhaps 
give  you  pointers  about  the  hotels.  I've  tried 
'em  all,  and  they're  no  good,  but  the  Albion's 
the  best." 

"Thank  you,  I'm  sure,"  said  Holcombe. 
"But  I  have  been  told  to  go  to  the  Isabella." 

"Well,  that's  pretty  good,  too,"  Meakim  an 
swered,  "if  you  don't  mind  the  tables.  They 
keep  you  awake  most  of  the  night,  though, 
and- 

"The  tables?  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said 
Holcombe,  stiffly. 

"Not  the  eatin'  tables;  the  roulette  tables," 
corrected  Meakim.  "Of  course,"  he  continued, 
grinning,  "if  you're  fond  of  the  game,  Mr.  Hol 
combe,  it's  handy  having  them  in  the  same 
house,  but  I  can  steer  you  against  a  better  one 
back  of  the  French  Consulate.  Those  at  the 
Hotel  Isabella's  crooked." 

Holcombe  stopped  uncertainly.  "I  don't 
ii 


THE  EXILES 

know  just  what  to  do,"  he  said.  "I  think  I 
shall  wait  until  I  can  see  our  consul  here." 

"Oh,  he'll  send  you  to  the  Isabella,"  said 
Meakim,  cheerfully.  "He  gets  two  hundred 
dollars  a  week  for  protecting  the  proprietor,  so 
he  naturally  caps  for  the  house." 

Holcombe  opened  his  mouth  to  express  him 
self,  but  closed  it  again,  and  then  asked,  with 
some  misgivings,  of  the  hotel  of  which  Meakim 
had  first  spoken. 

"Oh,  the  Albion.  Most  all  the  swells  go 
there.  It's  English,  and  they  cook  you  a  good 
beefsteak.  And  the  boys  generally  drop  in 
for  table  d'hote.  You  see,  that's  the  worst  of 
this  place,  Mr.  Holcombe;  there's  nowhere  to 
go  evenings — no  club-rooms  nor  theatre  nor 
nothing;  only  the  smoking-room  of  the  hotel 
or  that  gambling-house;  and  they  spring  a 
double  naught  on  you  if  there's  more  than  a 
dollar  up." 

Holcombe  still  stood  irresolute,  his  porters 
eying  him  from  under  their  burdens,  and  the 
runners  from  the  different  hotels  plucking  at 
his  sleeve. 

"There's  some  very  good  people  at  the  Al 
bion,"  urged  the  Police  Commissioner,  "and 
three  or  four  of  'em's  New-Yorkers.  There's 
the  Morrises  and  Ropes,  the  ConsuI-General, 
and  Lloyd  Carroll " 

12 


THE  EXILES 

"Lloyd  Carroll!"  exclaimed  Holcombe. 

"Yes,"  said  Meakim,  with  a  smile,  "he's 
here."  He  looked  at  Holcombe  curiously  for  a 
moment,  and  then  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh  of 
intelligence,  "Why,  sure  enough,  you  were  Mr. 
Thatcher's  lawyer  in  that  case,  weren't  you? 
It  was  you  got  him  his  divorce?" 

Holcombe  nodded. 

"Carroll  was  the  man  that  made  it  possible, 
wasn't  he?" 

Holcombe  chafed  under  this  catechism.  "He 
was  one  of  a  dozen,  I  believe,"  he  said;  but  as 
he  moved  away  he  turned  and  asked:  "And 
Mrs.  Thatcher.  What  has  become  of  her?" 

The  Police  Commissioner  did  not  answer  at 
once,  but  glanced  up  at  Holcombe  from  under 
his  half-shut  eyes  with  a  look  in  which  there 
was  a  mixture  of  curiosity  and  of  amusement. 
"You  don't  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Holcombe,"  he 
began,  slowly,  with  the  patronage  of  the  older 
man  and  with  a  touch  of  remonstrance  in  his 
tone,  "that  you're  still  with  the  husband  in 
that  case?" 

Holcombe  looked  coldly  over  Mr.  Meakim's 
head.  "I  have  only  a  purely  professional  in 
terest  in  any  one  of  them,"  he  said.  "They 
struck  me  as  a  particularly  nasty  lot.  Good- 
morning,  sir." 

"Well,"  Meakim  called  after  him,  "you 
13 


THE  EXILES 

needn't  see  nothing  of  them  if  you  don't  want 
to.  You  can  get  rooms  to  yourself." 

Holcombe  did  get  rooms  to  himself,  with  a 
balcony  overlooking  the  bay,  and  arranged  with 
the  proprietor  of  the  Albion  to  have  his  dinner 
served  at  a  separate  table.  As  others  had  done 
this  before,  no  one  regarded  it  as  an  affront 
upon  his  society,  and  several  people  in  the  hotel 
made  advances  to  him,  which  he  received 
politely  but  coldly.  For  the  first  week  of  his 
visit  the  town  interested  him  greatly,  increasing 
its  hold  upon  him  unconsciously  to  himself. 
He  was  restless  and  curious  to  see  it  all,  and 
rushed  his  guide  from  one  of  the  few  show- 
places  to  the  next  with  an  energy  which  left 
that  fat  Oriental  panting. 

But  after  three  days  Holcombe  climbed  the 
streets  more  leisurely,  stopping  for  half-hours  at 
a  time  before  a  bazaar,  or  sent  away  his  guide 
altogether,  and  stretched  himself  luxuriously  on 
the  broad  wall  of  the  fortifications.  The  sun 
beat  down  upon  him,  and  wrapped  him  into 
drowsiness.  From  far  afield  came  the  unceasing 
murmur  of  the  market-place  and  the  bazaars, 
and  the  occasional  cries  of  the  priests  from  the 
minarets;  the  dark  blue  sea  danced  and  flashed 
beyond  the  white  margin  of  the  town  and  its 
protecting  reef  of  rocks  where  the  sea-weed  rose 
and  fell,  and  above  his  head  the  buzzards  swept 

14 


THE  EXILES 

heavily,  and  called  to  one  another  with  harsh, 
frightened  cries.  At  his  side  lay  the  dusty 
road,  hemmed  in  by  walls  of  cactus,  and  along 
its  narrow  length  came  lines  of  patient  little 
donkeys  with  jangling  necklaces,  led  by  wild- 
looking  men  from  the  farm-lands  and  the  desert, 
and  women  muffled  and  shapeless,  with  only 
their  bare  feet  showing,  who  looked  at  him 
curiously  or  meaningly  from  over  the  protecting 
cloth,  and  passed  on,  leaving  him  startled  and 
wondering.  He  began  to  find  that  the  books 
he  had  brought  wearied  him.  The  sight  of  the 
type  alone  was  enough  to  make  him  close  the 
covers  and  start  up  restlessly  to  look  for  some 
thing  less  absorbing.  He  found  this  on  every 
hand,  in  the  lazy  patience  of  the  bazaars  and 
of  the  markets,  where  the  chief  service  of  all 
was  that  of  only  standing  and  waiting,  and  in 
the  farm-lands  behind  Tangier,  where  half- 
naked  slaves  drove  great  horned  buffalo,  and 
turned  back  the  soft,  chocolate-colored  sod 
with  a  wooden  plough.  But  it  was  a  solitary, 
selfish  holiday,  and  Holcombe  found  himself 
wanting  certain  ones  at  home  to  bear  him  com 
pany,  and  was  surprised  to  find  that  of  these 
none  were  the  men  nor  the  women  with  whom 
his  interests  in  the  city  of  New  York  were  the 
most  closely  connected.  They  were  rather 
foolish  people,  men  at  whom  he  had  laughed 

15 


THE  EXILES 

and  whom  he  had  rather  pitied  for  having 
made  him  do  so,  and  women  he  had  looked  at 
distantly  as  of  a  kind  he  might  understand  when 
his  work  was  over  and  he  wished  to  be  amused. 
The  young  girls  to  whom  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  pouring  out  his  denunciations  of  evil,  and 
from  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  receive  ad 
vice  and  moral  support,  he  could  not  place  in 
this  landscape.  He  felt  uneasily  that  they 
would  not  allow  him  to  enjoy  it  his  own  way; 
they  would  consider  the  Moor  historically  as 
the  invader  of  Catholic  Europe,  and  would  be 
shocked  at  the  lack  of  proper  sanitation,  and 
would  see  the  mud.  As  for  himself,  he  had 
risen  above  seeing  the  mud.  He  looked  up  now 
at  the  broken  line  of  the  roof-tops  against 
the  blue  sky,  and  when  a  hooded  figure  drew 
back  from  his  glance  he  found  himself  mur 
muring  the  words  of  an  Eastern  song  he  had 
read  in  a  book  of  Indian  stories: 

"Alone  upon  the  house-tops,  to  the  north 
I  turn  and  watch  the  lightning  in  the  sky, — 

The  glamour  of  thy  footsteps  in  the  north. 
Come  back  to  me,  Beloved,  or  I  die ! 

"Below  my  feet  the  still  bazaar  is  laid. 
Far,  far  below,  the  weary  camels  lie " 

Holcombe  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
He  had  stopped  half-way  down  the  hill  on  which 

16 


THE  EXILES 

stands  the  Bashaw's  palace,  and  the  whole  of 
Tangier  lay  below  him  like  a  great  cemetery  of 
white  marble.  The  moon  was  shining  clearly 
over  the  town  and  the  sea,  and  a  soft  wind  from 
the  sandy  farm-lands  came  to  him  and  played 
about  him  like  the  fragrance  of  a  garden. 
Something  moved  in  him  that  he  did  not  recog 
nize,  but  which  was  strangely  pleasant,  and 
which  ran  to  his  brain  like  the  taste  of  a  strong 
liqueur.  It  came  to  him  that  he  was  alone 
among  strangers,  and  that  what  he  did  now 
would  be  known  but  to  himself  and  to  these 
strangers.  What  it  was  that  he  wished  to  do 
he  did  not  know,  but  he  felt  a  sudden  lifting  up 
and  freedom  from  restraint.  The  spirit  of  ad 
venture  awoke  in  him  and  tugged  at  his  sleeve, 
and  he  was  conscious  of  a  desire  to  gratify  it 
and  put  it  to  the  test. 

"Alone  upon  the  house-tops,"'  he  began. 
Then  he  laughed  and  clambered  hurriedly  down 
the  steep  hill-side.  "It's  the  moonlight,"  he 
explained  to  the  blank  walls  and  overhanging 
lattices,  "and  the  place  and  the  music  of  the 
song.  It  might  be  one  of  the  Arabian  nights, 
and  I  Haroun  al  Raschid.  And  if  I  don't  get 
back  to  the  hotel  I  shall  make  a  fool  of  myself." 

He  reached  the  Albion  very  warm  and  breath 
less,  with  stumbling  and  groping  in  the  dark, 
and  instead  of  going  immediately  to  bed  told 

17 


THE  EXILES 

the  waiter  to  bring  him  some  cool  drink  out  on 
the  terrace  of  the  smoking-room.  There  were 
two  men  sitting  there  in  the  moonlight,  and  as 
he  came  forward  one  of  them  nodded  to  him 
silently. 

"Oh,  good-evening,  Mr.  Meakim!"  Hoi- 
combe  said,  gayly,  with  the  spirit  of  the  night 
still  upon  him.  "I've  been  having  adventures." 
He  laughed,  and  stooped  to  brush  the  dirt  from 
his  knickerbockers  and  stockings.  "I  went  up 
to  the  palace  to  see  the  town  by  moonlight,  and 
tried  to  find  my  way  back  alone,  and  fell  down 
three  times." 

Meakim  shook  his  head  gravely.  " You'd 
better  be  careful  at  night,  sir,"  he  said.  "The 
governor  has  just  said  that  the  Sultan  won't  be 
responsible  for  the  lives  of  foreigners  at  night 
'unless  accompanied  by  soldier  and  lantern." 

"Yes,  and  the  legations  sent  word  that  they 
wouldn't  have  it,"  broke  in  the  other  man. 
"They  said  they'd  hold  him  responsible  any 
way." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  Meakim  moved  in 
some  slight  uneasiness.  "Mr.  Holcombe,  do 
you  know  Mr.  Carroll?"  he  said. 

Carroll  half  rose  from  his  chair,  but  Hoi- 
combe  was  dragging  another  toward  him,  and 
so  did  not  have  a  hand  to  give  him. 

"How  are  you,  Carroll?"  he  said,  pleasantly. 
18 


THE  EXILES 

The  night  was  warm,  and  Holcombe  was  tired 
after  his  rambles,  and  so  he  sank  back  in  the 
low  wicker  chair  contentedly  enough,  and  when 
the  first  cool  drink  was  finished  he  clapped  his 
hands  for  another,  and  then  another,  while  the 
two  men  sat  at  the  table  beside  him  and  avoided 
such  topics  as  would  be  unfair  to  any  of  them. 

"And  yet,"  said  Holcombe,  after  the  first 
half-hour  had  passed,  "there  must  be  a  few 
agreeable  people  here.  I  am  sure  I  saw  some 
very  nice-looking  women  to-day  coming  in  from 
the  fox-hunt.  And  very  well  gotten  up,  too, 
in  Karki  habits.  And  the  men  were  handsome, 
decent-looking  chaps — Englishmen,  I  think." 

"Who  does  he  mean?  Were  you  at  the  meet 
to-day?"  asked  Carroll. 

The  Tammany  chieftain  said  no,  that  he  did 
not  ride — not  after  foxes,  in  any  event.  "But 
I  saw  Mrs.  Hornby  and  her  sister  coming  back," 
he  said.  "They  had  on  those  linen  habits." 

"Well,  now,  there's  a  woman  who  illustrates 
just  what  I  have  been  saying,"  continued 
Carroll.  "You  picked  her  out  as  a  self-respect 
ing,  nice-looking  girl — and  so  she  is — but  she 
wouldn't  like  to  have  to  tell  all  she  knows. 
No,  they  are  all  pretty  much  alike.  They 
wear  low-neck  frocks,  and  the  men  put  on 
evening  dress  for  dinner,  and  they  ride  after 
foxes,  and  they  drop  in  to  five-o'clock  tea,  and 

19 


THE  EXILES 

they  all  play  that  they're  a  lot  of  gilded  saints, 
and  it's  one  of  the  rules  of  the  game  that  you 
must  believe  in  the  next  man,  so  that  he  will 
believe  in  you.  I'm  breaking  the  rules  myself 
now,  because  I  say  'they'  when  I  ought  to  say 
'we.'  We're  none  of  us  here  for  our  health, 
Holcombe,  but  it  pleases  us  to  pretend  we  are. 
It's  a  sort  of  give  and  take.  We  all  sit  around 
at  dinner-parties  and  smile  and  chatter,  and 
those  English  talk  about  the  latest  news  from 
'town,'  and  how  they  mean  to  run  back  for  the 
season  or  the  hunting.  But  they  know  they 
don't  dare  go  back,  and  they  know  that  every 
body  at  the  table  knows  it,  and  that  the  ser 
vants  behind  them  know  it.  But  it's  more 
easy  that  way.  There's  only  a  few  of  us  here, 
and  we've  got  to  hang  together  or  we'd  go 
crazy." 

"That's  so,"  said  Meakim,  approvingly.  "It 
makes  it  more  sociable." 

"It's  a  funny  place,"  continued  Carroll. 
The  wine  had  loosened  his  tongue,  and  it  was 
something  to  him  to  be  able  to  talk  to  one  of 
his  own  people  again,  and  to  speak  from  their 
point  of  view,  so  that  the  man  who  had  gone 
through  St.  Paul's  and  Harvard  with  him  would 
see  it  as  such  a  man  should.  "It's  a  funny 
place,  because,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it's  a 
prison,  you  grow  to  like  it  for  its  freedom. 

20 


THE  EXILES 

You  can  do  things  here  you  can't  do  in  New 
York,  and  pretty  much  everything  goes  there, 
or  it  used  to,  where  I  hung  out.  But  here 
you're  just  your  own  master,  and  there's  no 
law  and  no  religion  and  no  relations  nor  news 
papers  to  poke  into  what  you  do  nor  how  you 
live.  You  can  understand  what  I  mean  if 
you've  ever  tried  living  in  the  West.  I  used  to 
feel  the  same  way  the  year  I  was  ranching  in 
Texas.  My  family  sent  me  out  there  to  put 
me  out  of  temptation;  but  I  concluded  I'd 
rather  drink  myself  to  death  on  good  whiskey 
at  Del's  than  on  the  stuff  we  got  on  the  range, 
so  I  pulled  my  freight  and  came  East  again. 
But  while  I  was  there  I  was  a  little  king.  I  was 
just  as  good  as  the  next  man,  and  he  was  no 
better  than  me.  And  though  the  life  was 
rough,  and  it  was  cold  and  lonely,  there  was 
something  in  being  your  own  boss  that  made 
you  stick  it  out  there  longer  than  anything  else 
did.  It  was  like  this,  Holcombe."  Carroll 
half  rose  from  his  chair  and  marked  what  he 
said  with  his  finger.  "Every  time  I  took  a 
step  and  my  gun  bumped  against  my  hip,  I'd 
straighten  up  and  feel  good  and  look  fpr  trouble. 
There  was  nobody  to  appeal  to;  it  was  just  be 
tween  me  and  him,  and  no  one  else  had  any  say 
about  it.  Well,  that's  what  it's  like  here. 
You  see  men  come  to  Tangier  on  the  run, 

21 


THE  EXILES 

flying  from  detectives  or  husbands  or  bank  di 
rectors,  men  who  have  lived  perfectly  decent, 
commonplace  lives  up  to  the  time  they  made 
their  one  bad  break — which,"  Carroll  added, 
in  polite  parenthesis,  with  a  deprecatory  wave 
of  his  hand  toward  Meakim  and  himself,  "we 
are  all  likely  to  do  some  time,  aren't  we?" 

"Just  so,"  said  Meakim. 

"Of  course,"  assented  the  District  Attorney. 

"But  as  soon  as  he  reaches  this  place,  Hoi- 
combe,"  continued  Carroll,  "he  begins  to  show 
just  how  bad  he  is.  It  all  comes  out — all  his 
viciousness  and  rottenness  and  blackguardism. 
There  is  nothing  to  shame  it,  and  there  is  no 
one  to  blame  him,  and  no  one  is  in  a  position 
to  throw  the  first  stone."  Carroll  dropped  his 
voice  and  pulled  his  chair  forward  with  a  glance 
over  his  shoulder.  "One  of  those  men  you 
saw  riding  in  from  the  meet  to-day.  Now,  he's 
a  German  officer,  and  he's  here  for  forging  a 
note  or  cheating  at  cards  or  something  quiet 
and  gentlemanly,  nothing  that  shows  him  to  be 
a  brute  or  a  beast.  But  last  week  he  had  old 
MuIIey  Wazzam  buy  him  a  slave  girl  in  Fez, 
and  bring  her  out  to  his  house  in  the  suburbs. 
It  seems  that  the  girl  was  in  love  with  a  soldier 
in  the  Sultan's  body-guard  at  Fez,  and  tried  to 
run  away  to  join  him,  and  this  man  met  her 
quite  by  accident  as  she  was  making  her  way 

22 


THE  EXILES 

south  across  the  sand-hills.  He  was  whip  that 
day,  and  was  hurrying  out  to  the  meet  alone. 
He  had  some  words  with  the  girl  first,  and  then 
took  his  whip — it  was  one  of  those  with  the 
long  lash  to  it;  you  know  what  I  mean — and 
cut  her  to  pieces  with  it,  riding  her  down  on 
his  pony  when  she  tried  to  run,  and  heading 
her  off  and  lashing  her  around  the  legs  and  body 
until  she  fell;  then  he  rode  on  in  his  damn  pink 
coat  to  join  the  ladies  at  Mango's  Drift,  where 
the  meet  was,  and  some  Riffs  found  her  bleeding 
to  death  behind  the  sand-hills.  That  man  held 
a  commission  in  the  Emperor's  own  body-guard, 
and  that's  what  Tangier  did  for  him" 

Holcombe  glanced  at  .Meakim  to  see  if  he 
would  verify  this,  but  Meakim's  lips  were 
tightly  pressed  around  his  cigar,  and  his  eyes 
were  half  closed. 

"And  what  was  done  about  it?"  Holcombe 
asked,  hoarsely. 

Carroll  laughed,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"Why,  I  tell  you,  and  you  whisper  it  to  the 
next  man,  and  we  pretend  not  to  believe  it,  and 
call  the  Riffs  liars.  As  I  say,  we're  none  of  us 
here  for  our  health,  Holcombe,  and  a  public 
opinion  that's  manufactured  by  declassee  women 
and  men  who  have  run  off  with  somebody's 
money  and  somebody's  else's  wife  isn't  strong 
enough  to  try  a  man  for  beating  his  own  slave." 

23 


THE  EXILES 

"But  the  Moors  themselves?"  protested  Hoi- 
combe.  "And  the  Sultan?  She's  one  of  his 
subjects,  isn't  she?" 

"She's  a  woman,  and  women  don't  count  for 
much  in  the  East,  you  know;  and  as  for  the 
Sultan,  he's  an  ignorant  black  savage.  When 
the  English  wanted  to  blow  up  those  rocks  off 
the  western  coast,  the  Sultan  wouldn't  let  them. 
He  said  Allah  had  placed  them  there  for  some 
good  reason  of  His  own,  and  it  was  not  for  man 
to  interfere  with  the  works  of  God.  That's  the 
sort  of  a  Sultan  he  is."  Carroll  rose  suddenly 
and  walked  into  the  smoking-room,  leaving  the 
two  men  looking  at  each  other  in  silence. 

"That's  right,"  said  Meakim,  •  after  a  pause. 
"He  give  it  to  you  just  as  it  is,  but  I  never  knew 
him  to  kick  about  it  before.  We're  a  fair  field 
for  missionary  work,  Mr.  Holcombe,  all  of  us — 
at  least,  some  of  us  are."  He  glanced  up  as 
Carroll  came  back  from  out  of  the  lighted  room 
with  an  alert,  brisk  step.  His  manner  had 
changed  in  his  absence. 

"  Some  of  the  ladies  have  come  over  for  a  bit 
of  supper,"  he  said.  "Mrs.  Hornby  and  her 
sister  and  Captain  Reese.  The  chefs  got  some 
birds  for  us,  and  I've  put  a  couple  of  bottles  on 
ice.  It  will  be  like  Del's — hey?  A  small  hot 
bird  and  a  large  cold  bottle.  They  sent  me  out 
to  ask  you  to  join  us.  They're  in  our  rooms." 

24 


THE  EXILES 

Meakim  rose  leisurely  and  lit  a  fresh  cigar,  but 
Holcombe  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "  You'll 
come,  won't  you?"  Carroll  asked.  "I'd  like 
you  to  meet  my  wife." 

Holcombe  rose  irresolutely  and  looked  at  his 
watch.  "I'm  afraid  it's  too  late  for  me,"  he 
said,  without  raising  his  face.  "You  see,  I'm 
here  for  my  health.  I " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Carroll,  sharply. 

"Nonsense,  Carroll!"  said  Holcombe.  "I 
didn't  mean  that.  I  meant  it  literally.  I  can't 
risk  midnight  suppers  yet.  My  doctor's  orders 
are  to  go  to  bed  at  nine,  and  it's  past  twelve 
now.  Some  other  time,  if  you'll  be  so  good; 
but  it's  long  after  my  bedtime,  and " 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Carroll,  quietly,  as  he 
turned  away.  "Are  you  coming,  Meakim?" 

Meakim  lifted  his  half-empty  glass  from  the 
table  and  tasted  it  slowly  until  Carroll  had  left 
them,  then  he  put  the  glass  down,  and  glanced 
aside  to  where  Holcombe  sat  looking  out  over 
the  silent  city.  Holcombe  raised  his  eyes  and 
stared  at  him  steadily. 

"Mr.  Holcombe — "  the  fugitive  began. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  lawyer. 

Meakim  shook  his  head.  "Nothing,"  he 
said.  "Good-night,  sir." 

Holcombe's  rooms  were  on  the  floor  above 
Carroll's,  and  the  laughter  of  the  latter's  guests 

25 


THE   EXILES 

and  the  tinkling  of  glasses  and  silver  came  to 
him  as  he  stepped  out  upon  his  balcony.  But 
for  this  the  night  was  very  still.  The  sea  beat 
leisurely  on  the  rocks,  and  the  waves  ran  up 
the  sandy  coast  with  a  sound  as  of  some  one 
sweeping.  The  music  of  women's  laughter  came 
up  to  him  suddenly,  and  he  wondered  hotly  if 
they  were  laughing  at  him.  He  assured  him 
self  that  it  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  him 
if  they  were.  And  with  this  he  had  a  wish  that 
they  would  not  think  of  him  as  holding  himself 
aloof.  One  of  the  women  began  to  sing  to  a 
guitar,  and  to  the  accompaniment  of  this  a  man 
and  a  young  girl  came  out  upon  the  balcony 
below,  and  spoke  to  each  other  in  low,  earnest 
tones,  which  seemed  to  carry  with  them  the 
feeling  of  a  caress.  Holcombe  could  not  hear 
what  they  said,  but  he  could  see  the  curve  of 
the  woman's  white  shoulders  and  the  light  of 
her  companion's  cigar  as  he  leaned  upon  the 
rail  with  his  back  to  the  moonlight  and  looked 
into  her  face.  Holcombe  felt  a  sudden  touch 
of  loneliness  and  of  being  very  far  from  home. 
He  shivered  slightly  as  though  from  the  cold, 
and  stepping  inside  closed  the  window  gently 
behind  him. 

Although  Holcombe  met  Carroll  several  times 
during  the  following  day,  the  latter  obviously 
avoided  him,  and  it  was  not  until  late  in  the 

26 


THE  EXILES 

afternoon  that  Holcombe  was  given  a  chance 
to  speak  to  him  again.  Carroll  was  coming 
down  the  only  street  on  a  run,  jumping  from 
one  rough  stone  to  another,  and  with  his  face 
lighted  up  with  excitement.  He  hailed  Hoi- 
combe  from  a  distance  with  a  wave  of  the  hand. 
"There's  an  American  man-of-war  in  the  bay," 
he  cried;  "one  of  the  new  ones.  We  saw  her 
flag  from  the  hotel.  Come  on!"  Holcombe 
followed  as  a  matter  of  course,  as  Carroll  evi 
dently  expected  that  he  would,  and  they  reached 
the  end  of  the  landing-pier  together,  just  as  the 
ship  of  war  ran  up  and  broke  the  square  red 
flag  of  Morocco  from  her  main-mast  and  fired 
her  salute. 

"They'll  be  sending  a  boat  in  by-and-by," 
said  Carroll,  "and  we'll  have  a  talk  with  the 
men."  His  enthusiasm  touched  his  companion 
also,  and  the  sight  of  the  floating  atom  of  the 
great  country  that  was  his  moved  him  strongly, 
as  though  it  were  a  personal  message  from  home. 
It  came  to  him  like  the  familiar  stamp,  and  a 
familiar  handwriting  on  a  letter  in  a  far-away 
land,  and  made  him  feel  how  dear  his  own 
country  was  to  him  and  how  much  he  needed 
it.  They  were  leaning  side  by  side  upon  the 
rail  watching  the  ship's  screws  turning  the 
blue  waters  white,  and  the  men  running  about 
the  deck,  and  the  blue-coated  figures  on  the 

27 


THE  EXILES 

bridge.  Holcombe  turned  to  point  out  the 
vessel's  name  to  Carroll,  and  found  that  his 
companion's  eyes  were  half  closed  and  filled 
with  tears. 

Carroll  laughed  consciously  and  coughed. 
"We  kept  it  up  a  bit  too  late  last  night,"  he 
said,  "and  I'm  feeling  nervous  this  morning, 
and  the  sight  of  the  flag  and  those  boys  from 
home  knocked  me  out."  He  paused  for  a 
moment,  frowning  through  his  tears  and  with 
his  brow  drawn  up  into  many  wrinkles.  "It's 
a  terrible  thing,  Holcombe,"  he  began  again, 
fiercely,  "to  be  shut  off  from  all  of  that." 
He  threw  out  his  hand  with  a  sudden  ges 
ture  toward  the  man-of-war.  Holcombe  looked 
down  at  the  water  and  laid  his  hand  lightly 
on  his  companion's  shoulder.  Carroll  drew 
away  and  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  want 
any  sympathy,"  he  said,  kindly.  "I'm  not 
crying  the  baby  act.  But  you  don't  know, 
and  I  don't  believe  anybody  else  knows,  what 
I've  gone  through  and  what  I've  suffered. 
You  don't  like  me,  Holcombe,  and  you  don't 
like  my  class,  but  I  want  to  tell  you  something 
about  my  coming  here.  I  want  you  to  set 
them  right  about  it  at  home.  And  I  don't  care 
whether  it  interests  you  or  not,"  he  said,  with 
quick  offense;  "I  want  you  to  listen.  It's 
about  my  wife." 

28 


THE  EXILES 

Holcombe  bowed  his  head  gravely. 

"You  got  Thatcher  his  divorce,"  Carroll 
continued.  "And  you  know  that  he  would 
never  have  got  it  but  for  me,  and  that  every 
body  expected  that  I  would  marry  Mrs.  That 
cher  when  the  thing  was  over.  And  I  didn't, 
and  everybody  said  I  was  a  blackguard,  and  I 
was.  It  was  bad  enough  before,  but  I  made  it 
worse  by  not  doing  the  only  thing  that  could 
make  it  any  better.  Why  I  didn't  do  it  I  don't 
know.  I  had  some  grand  ideas  of  reform  about 
that  time,  I  think,  and  I  thought  I  owed  my 
people  something,  and  that  by  not  making  Mrs. 
Thatcher  my  mother's  daughter  I  would  be 
saving  her  and  my  sisters.  It  was  remorse,  I 
guess,  and  I  didn't  see  things  straight.  I  know 
now  what  I  should  have  done.  Well,  I  left  her 
and  she  went  her  own  way,  and  a  great  many 
people  felt  sorry  for  her,  and  were  good  to  her 
— not  your  people,  nor  my  people;  but  enough 
were  good  to  her  to  make  her  see  as  much  of 
the  world  as  she  had  used  to.  She  never  loved 
Thatcher,  and  she  never  loved  any  of  the  men 
you  brought  into  that  trial  except  one,  and  he 
treated  her  like  a  cur.  That  was  myself. 
Well,  what  with  trying  to  please  my  family, 
and  loving  Alice  Thatcher  all  the  time  and  not 
seeing  her,  and  hating  her  too  for  bringing  me 
into  all  that  notoriety — for  I  blamed  the  woman, 

29 


THE  EXILES 

of  course,  as  a  man  always  will — I  got  to  drink 
ing,  and  then  this  scrape  came  and  I  had  to 
run.  I  don't  care  anything  about  that  row 
now,  or  what  you  believe  about  it.  I'm  here, 
shut  off  from  my  home,  and  that's  a  worse 
punishment  than  any  damn  lawyers  can  in 
vent.  And  the  man's  well  again.  He  saw  I 
was  drunk;  but  I  wasn't  so  drunk  that  I  didn't 
know  he  was  trying  to  do  me,  and  I  pounded 
him  just  as  they  say  I  did,  and  I'm  sorry  now 
I  didn't  kill  him." 

Holcombe  stirred  uneasily,  and  the  man  at  his 
side  lowered  his  voice  and  went  on  more  calmly: 

"If  I  hadn't  been  a  gentleman,  Holcombe,  or 
if  it  had  been  another  cabman  he'd  fought  with, 
there  wouldn't  have  been  any  trouble  about  it. 
But  he  thought  he  could  get  big  money  out  of 
me,  and  his  friends  told  him  to  press  it  until  he 
was  paid  to  pull  out,  and  I  hadn't  the  money, 
and  so  I  had  to  break  bail  and  run.  Well, 
you've  seen  the  place.  You've  been  here  long 
enough  to  know  what  it's  like,  and  what  I've 
had  to  go  through.  Nobody  wrote  me,  and 
nobody  came  to  see  me;  not  one  of  my  own 
sisters  even,  though  they've  been  in  the  Riviera 
all  this  spring — not  a  day's  journey  away. 
Sometimes  a  man  turned  up  that  I  knew,  but 
it  was  almost  worse  than  not  seeing  any  one. 
It  only  made  me  more  homesick  when  he'd 

30 


THE  EXILES 

gone.  And  for  weeks  I  used  to  walk  up  and 
down  that  beach  there  alone  late  in  the  night, 
until  I  got  to  thinking  that  the  waves  were 
talking  to  me,  and  I  got  queer  in  my  head.  I 
had  to  fight  it  just  as  I  used  to  have  to  fight 
against  whiskey,  and  to  talk  fast  so  that  I 
wouldn't  think.  And  I  tried  to  kill  myself 
hunting,  and  only  got  a  broken  collar-bone  for 
my  pains.  Well,  all  this  time  Alice  was  living 
in  Paris  and  New  York.  I  heard  that  some 
English  captain  was  going  to  marry  her,  and 
then  I  read  in  the  Paris  Herald  that  she  was 
settled  in  the  American  colony  there,  and  one 
day  it  gave  a  list  of  the  people  who'd  been  to 
a  reception  she  gave.  She  could  go  where  she 
pleased,  and  she  had  money  in  her  own  right, 
you  know;  and  she  was  being  revenged  on  me 
every  day.  And  I  was  here  knowing  it,  and 
loving  her  worse  than  I  ever  loved  anything  on 
earth,  and  having  lost  the  right  to  tell  her  so, 
and  not  able  to  go  to  her.  Then  one  day  some 
chap  turned  up  from  here  and  told  her  about  me, 
and  about  how  miserable  I  was,  and  how  well  I 
was  being  punished.  He  thought  it  would 
please  her,  I  suppose.  I  don't  know  who  he 
was,  but  I  guess  he  was  in  love  with  her  himself. 
And  then  the  papers  had  it  that  I  was  down 
with  the  fever  here,  and  she  read  about  it.  I 
was  ill  for  a  time,  and  I  hoped  it  was  going  to 


THE  EXILES 

carry  me  off  decently,  but  I  got  up  in  a  week 
or  two,  and  one  day  I  crawled  down  here  where 
we're  standing  now  to  watch  the  boat  come  in. 
I  was  pretty  weak  from  my  illness,  and  I  was 
bluer  than  I  had  ever  been,  and  I  didn't  see 
anything  but  blackness  and  bitterness  for  me 
anywhere.  I  turned  around  when  the  passen 
gers  reached  the  pier,  and  I  saw  a  woman 
coming  up  those  stairs.  Her  figure  and  her 
shoulders  were  so  like  Alice's  that  my  heart 
went  right  up  into  my  throat,  and  I  couldn't 
breathe  for  it.  I  just  stood  still  staring,  and 
when  she  reached  the  top  of  the  steps  she  looked 
up,  breathing  with  the  climb,  and  laughing; 
and  she  says,  'Lloyd,  I've  come  to  see  you.' 
And  I — I  was  that  lonely  and  weak  that  I 
grabbed  her  hand,  and  leaned  back  against  the 
railing,  and  cried  there  before  the  whole  of  them. 
I  don't  think  she  expected  it  exactly,  because 
she  didn't  know  what  to  do,  and  just  patted 
me 'on  the  shoulder,  and  said,  'I  thought  I'd 
run  down  to  cheer  you  up  a  bit;  and  I've 
brought  Mrs.  Scott  with  me  to  chaperon  us.' 
And  I  said,  without  stopping  to  think:  'You 
wouldn't  have  needed  any  chaperon,  Alice,  if 
I  hadn't  been  a  cur  and  a  fool.  If  I  had  only 
asked  what  I  can't  ask  of  you  now';  and,  Hoi- 
combe,  she  flushed  just  like  a  little  girl,  and 
laughed,  and  said,  'Oh,  will  you,  Lloyd?'  And 

32 


THE  EXILES 

you  see  that  ugly  iron  chapel  up  there,  with 
the  corrugated  zinc  roof  and  the  wooden  cross 
on  it,  next  to  the  mosque?  Well,  that's  where 
we  went  first,  right  from  this  wharf  before  I  let 
her  go  to  a  hotel,  and  old  Ridley,  the  English 
rector,  he  married  us,  and  we  had  a  civil  mar 
riage  too.  That's  what  she  did  for  me.  She 
had  the  whole  wide  globe  to  live  in,  and  she 
gave  it  up  to  come  to  Tangier,  because  I  had 
no  other  place  but  Tangier,  and  she's  made  my 
life  for  me,  and  I'm  happier  here  than  I  ever 
was  before  anywhere,  and  sometimes  I  think — 
I  hope — that  she  is,  too."  Carroll's  lips  moved 
slightly,  and  his  hands  trembled  on  the  rail. 
He  coughed,  and  his  voice  was  gentler  when  he 
spoke  again.  "And  so,"  he  added,  "that's  why 
I  felt  it  last  night  when  you  refused  to  meet 
her.  You  were  right,  I  know,  from  your  way 
of  thinking,  but  we've  grown  careless  down 
here,  and  we  look  at  things  differently." 

Holcombe  did  not  speak,  but  put  his  arm 
across  the  other's  shoulder,  and  this  time  Car 
roll  did  not  shake  it  off.  Holcombe  pointed 
with  his  hand  to  a  tall,  handsome  woman  with 
heavy  yellow  hair  who  was  coming  toward 
them,  with  her  hands  in  the  pockets  of  her 
reefer.  "There  is  Mrs.  Carroll  now,"  he  said. 
"Won't  you  present  me,  and  then  we  can  row 
out  and  see  the  man-of-war?" 

33 


II 


THE  officers  returned  their  visit  during  the 
day,  and  the  American  Consul-General  asked 
them  all  to  a  reception  the  following  afternoon. 
The  entire  colony  came  to  this,  and  Holcombe 
met  many  people,  and  drank  tea  with  several 
ladies  in  riding-habits,  and  iced  drinks  with 
all  of  the  men.  He  found  it  very  amusing,  and 
the  situation  appealed  strongly  to  his  somewhat 
latent  sense  of  humor.  That  evening  in  writing 
to  his  sister  he  told  of  his  rapid  recovery  in 
health,  and  of  the  possibility  of  his  returning  to 
civilization. 

"There  was  a  reception  this  afternoon  at  the 
Consul-General's,"  he  wrote,  "given  to  the  offi 
cers  of  our  man-of-war,  and  I  found  myself  in 
some  rather  remarkable  company.  The  Consul 
himself  has  become  rich  by  selling  his  protection 
for  two  hundred  dollars  to  every  wealthy  Moor 
who  wishes  to  escape  the  forced  loans  which  the 
Sultan  is  in  the  habit  of  imposing  on  the  faith 
ful.  For  five  hundred  dollars  he  will  furnish 
any  one  of  them  with  a  piece  of  stamped  paper 
accrediting  him  as  minister  plenipotentiary  from 
the  United  States  to  the  Sultan's  court.  Of 

34 


THE  EXILES 

course  the  Sultan  never  receives  them,  and  what 
ever  object  they  may  have  had  in  taking  the  long 
journey  to  Fez  is  never  accomplished.  Some  day 
some  one  of  them  will  find  out  how  he  has  been 
tricked,  and  will  return  to  have  the  Consul 
assassinated.  This  will  be  a  serious  loss  to  our 
diplomatic  service.  The  Consul's  wife  is  a  fat 
German  woman  who  formerly  kept  a  hotel 
here.  Her  brother  has  it  now,  and  runs  it  as 
an  annex  to  a  gambling-house.  Pat  Meakim, 
the  Police  Commissioner  that  I  indicted,  but 
who  jumped  his  bail,  introduced  me  at  the  re 
ception  to  the  men,  with  apparently  great  self- 
satisfaction,  as  'the  pride  of  the  New  York 
Bar/  and  Mrs.  Carroll,  for  whose  husband  I 
obtained  a  divorce,  showed  her  gratitude  by 
presenting  me  to  the  ladies.  It  was  a  dis 
tinctly  Gilbertian  situation,  and  the  people  to 
whom  they  introduced  me  were  quite  as  pic 
turesquely  disreputable  as  themselves.  So  you 
see " 

Holcombe  stopped  here  and  read  over  what 
he  had  written,  and  then  tore  up  the  letter. 
The  one  he  sent  in  its  place  said  he  was  getting 
better,  but  that  the  climate  was  not  so  mild  as 
he  had  expected  it  would  be. 

Holcombe  engaged  the  entire  first  floor  of 
the  hotel  the  next  day,  and  entertained  the 
officers  and  the  residents  at  breakfast,  and  the 

35 


THE  EXILES 

Admiral  made  a  speech  and  said  how  grateful 
it  was  to  him  and  to  his  officers  to  find  that 
wherever  they  might  touch,  there  were  some 
few  Americans  ready  to  welcome  them  as  the 
representatives  of  the  flag  they  all  so  unselfishly 
loved,  and  of  the  land  they  still  so  proudly 
called  "home."  Carroll,  turning  his  wine-glass 
slowly  between  his  fingers,  raised  his  eyes  to 
catch  Holcombe's,  and  winked  at  him  from 
behind  the  curtain  of  the  smoke  of  his  cigar, 
and  Holcombe  smiled  grimly,  and  winked  back, 
with  the  result  that  Meakim,  who  had  inter 
cepted  the  signalling,  choked  on  his  champagne, 
and  had  to  be  pounded  violently  on  the  back. 
Holcombe's  breakfast  established  him  as  a  man 
of  means  and  one  who  could  entertain  properly, 
and  after  that  his  society  was  counted  upon 
for  every  hour  of  the  day.  He  offered  money 
as  prizes  for  the  ship's  crew  to  row  and  swim 
after,  he  gave  a  purse  for  a  cross-country  pony 
race,  open  to  members  of  the  Calpe  and  Tangier 
hunts,  and  organized  picnics  and  riding  parties 
innumerable.  He  was  forced  at  last  to  hire  a 
soldier  to  drive  away  the  beggars  when  he 
walked  abroad.  He  found  it  easy  to  be  rich 
in  a  place  where  he  was  given  over  two  hundred 
copper  coins  for  an  English  shilling,  and  he 
distributed  his  largesses  recklessly  and  with 
a  lack  of  discrimination  entirely  opposed  to 


THE  EXILES 

the  precepts  of  his  organized  charities  at  home. 
He  found  it  so  much  more  amusing  to  throw  a 
handful  of  coppers  to  a  crowd  of  fat  naked 
children  than  to  write  a  check  for  the  Society 
for  Suppression  of  Cruelty  to  the  same  bene 
ficiaries. 

"You  shouldn't  give  those  fellows  money," 
the  ConsuI-General  once  remonstrated  with 
him;  "the  fact  that  they're  blind  is  only  a 
proof  that  they  have  been  thieves.  When  they 
catch  a  man  stealing  here  they  hold  his  head 
back,  and  pass  a  hot  iron  in  front  of  his  eyes. 
That's  why  the  lids  are  drawn  taut  that  way. 
You  shouldn't  encourage  them." 

"Perhaps  they're  not  all  thieves,"  said  the 
District  Attorney,  cheerfully,  as  he  hit  the  circle 
around  him  with  a  handful  of  coppers;  "but 
there  is  no  doubt  about  it  that  they're  all  blind. 
Which  is  the  more  to  be  pitied,"  he  asked  the 
ConsuI-General,  "the  man  who  has  still  to  be 
found  out  and  who  can  see,  or  the  one  who  has 
been  exposed  and  who  is  blind?" 

"How  should  he  know?"  said  Carroll,  laugh 
ing.  "He's  never  been  blind,  and  he  still  holds 
his  job." 

"I  don't  think  that's  very  funny,"  said  the 
ConsuI-General. 

A  week  of  pig-sticking  came  to  end  Hoi- 
combe's  stay  in  Tangier,  and  he  threw  himself 

37 


THE  EXILES 

into  it  and  into  the  freedom  of  its  life  with  a 
zest  that  made  even  the  Englishman  speak  of 
him  as  a  good  fellow.  He  chanced  to  overhear 
this,  and  stopped  to  consider  what  it  meant. 
No  one  had  ever  called  him  a  good  fellow  at 
home,  but  then  his  life  had  not  offered  him  the 
chance  to  show  what  sort  of  a  good  fellow  he 
might  be,  and  as  Judge  Holcombe's  son  certain 
things  had  been  debarred  him.  Here  he  was 
only  the  richest  tourist  since  Farwell,  the  dia 
mond  smuggler  from  Amsterdam,  had  touched 
there  in  his  yacht. 

The  week  of  boar-hunting  was  spent  out-of- 
doors,  on  horseback,  and  in  tents;  the  women 
in  two  wide  circular  ones,  and  the  men  in  an 
other,  with  a  mess  tent,  which  they  shared  in 
common,  pitched  between  them.  They  had 
only  one  change  of  clothes  each,  one  wet  and 
one  dry,  and  they  were  in  the  saddle  from 
nine  in  the  morning  until  late  at  night,  when 
they  gathered  in  a  wide  circle  around  the  wood- 
fire  and  played  banjoes  and  listened  to  stories. 
Holcombe  grew  as  red  as  a  sailor,  and  jumped 
his  horse  over  gaping  crevasses  in  the  hard 
sun-baked  earth  as  recklessly  as  though  there 
were  nothing  in  this  world  so  well  worth  sacri 
ficing  one's  life  for  as  to  be  the  first  in  at  a  dumb 
brute's  death.  He  was  on  friendly  terms  with 
them  all  now — with  Miss  Terrill,  the  young  girl 

38 


THE  EXILES 

who  had  been  awakened  by  night  and  told  to 
leave  Monte  Carlo  before  daybreak,  and  with 
Mrs.  Darhah,  who  would  answer  to  Lady  Taun- 
ton  if  so  addressed,  and  with  Andrews,  the  Scotch 
bank  clerk,  and  OIlid  the  boy  officer  from 
Gibraltar,  who  had  found  some  difficulty  in 
making  the  mess  account  balance.  They  were 
all  his*  very  good  friends,  and  he  was  especially 
courteous  and  attentive  to  Miss  TerruTs  wants 
and  interests,  and  fixed  her  stirrup  and  once 
let  her  pass  him  to  charge  the  boar  in  his  place. 
She  was  a  silently  distant  young  woman,  and 
strangely  gentle  for  one  who  had  had  to  leave 
a  place,  and  such  a  place,  between  days;  and 
her  hair,  which  was  very  fine  and  light,  ran 
away  from  under  her  white  helmet  in  discon 
nected  curls.  At  night,  Holcombe  used  to 
watch  her  from  out  of  the  shadow  when  the 
firelight  lit  up  the  circle  and  the  tips  of  the 
palms  above  them,  and  when  the  story-teller's 
voice  was  accompanied  by  bursts  of  occasional 
laughter  from  the  dragomen  in  the  grove  be 
yond,  and  the  stamping  and  neighing  of  the 
horses  at  their  pickets,  and  the  unceasing  chorus 
of  the  insect  life  about  them.  She  used  to  sit 
on  one  of  the  rugs  with  her  hands  clasped  about 
her  knees,  and  with  her  head  resting  on  Mrs. 
Hornby's  broad  shoulder,  looking  down  into 
the  embers  of  the  fire,  and  with  the  story  of 

39 


THE  EXILES 

her  life  written  on  her  girl's  face  as  irrevocably 
as  though  old  age  had  set  its  seal  there.  Hoi- 
combe  was  kind  to  them  all  now,  even  to  Mea- 
kim,  when  that  gentleman  rode  leisurely  out 
to  the  camp  with  the  mail  and  the  latest  Paris 
Herald,  which  was  their  one  bond  of  union 
with  the  great  outside  world. 

Carroll  sat  smoking  his  pipe  one  night,  and 
bending  forward  over  the  fire  to  get  its  light  on 
the  pages  of  the  latest  copy  of  this  paper.  Sud 
denly  he  dropped  it  between  his  knees.  "I 
say,  Holcombe,"  he  cried,  "here's  news!  Win- 
throp  Allen  has  absconded  with  three  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  and  no  one  knows  where." 

Holcombe  was  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the 
fire,  prying  at  the  rowel  of  his  spur  with  a  hunt 
ing-knife.  He  raised  his  head  and  laughed. 
"Another  good  man  gone  wrong,  hey?"  he  said. 

Carroll  lowered  the  paper  slowly  to  his  knee 
and  stared  curiously  through  the  smoky  light 
to  where  Holcombe  sat  intent  on  the  rowel  of 
his  spur.  It  apparently  absorbed  his  entire 
attention,  and  his  last  remark  had  been  an  un 
consciously  natural  one.  Carroll  smiled  grimly 
as  he  folded  the  paper  across  his  knee.  "Now 
are  the  mighty  fallen,  indeed,"  he  murmured. 
He  told  Meakim  of  it  a  few  minutes  later,  and 
they  both  marvelled.  "It's  just  as  I  told  him, 
isn't  it,  and  he  wouldn't  believe  me.  It's  the 

40 


THE   EXILES 

place  and  the  people.  Two  weeks  ago  he  would 
have  raged.  Why,  Meakim,  you  know  Allen 
— Winthrop  Allen?  He's  one  of  Holcombe's 
own  sort;  older  than  he  is,  but  one  of  his  own 
people;  belongs  to  the  same  clubs;  and  to  the 
same  family,  I  think,  and  yet  Harry  took  it 
just  as  a  matter  of  course,  with  no  more  interest 
than  if  I'd  said  that  Allen  was  going  to  be 
married." 

Meakim  gave  a  low,  comfortable  laugh  of 
content.  "It  makes  me  smile,"  he  chuckled, 
"every  time  I  think  of  him  the  day  he  came  up 
them  stairs.  He  scared  me  half  to  death,  he 
did,  and  then  he  says,  just  as  stiff  as  you  please, 
'If  you'll  leave  me  alone,  Mr.  Meakim,  I'll 
not  trouble  you.'  And  now  it's  'Meakim  this,' 
and  'Meakim  that,'  and  'have  a  drink,  Meakim,' 
just  as  thick  as  thieves.  I  have  to  laugh  when 
ever  I  think  of  it  now.  'If  you'll  leave  me 
alone,  I'll  not  trouble  you,  Mr.  Meakim." 

Carroll  pursed  his  lips  and  looked  up  at  the 
broad  expanse  of  purple  heavens  with  the  white 
stars  shining  through.  "  It's  rather  a  pity,  too, 
in  a  way,"  he  said,  slowly.  "He  was  all  the 
Public  Opinion  we  had,  and  now  that  he's 
thrown  up  the  part,  why 

The  pig-sticking  came  to  an  end  finally,  and 
Holcombe  distinguished  himself  by  taking  his 
first  fall,  and  under  romantic  circumstances. 

41 


THE  EXILES 

He  was  in  an  open  place,  with  Mrs.  Carroll  at 
the  edge  of  the  brush  to  his  right,  and  Miss 
Terrill  guarding  any  approach  from  the  left. 
They  were  too  far  apart  to  speak  to  one  another, 
and  sat  quite  still  and  alert  to  any  noise  as  the 
beaters  closed  in  around  them.  There  was  a 
sharp  rustle  in  the  reeds,  and  the  boar  broke 
out  of  it  some  hundred  feet  ahead  of  Holcombe. 
He  went  after  it  at  a  gallop,  headed  it  off,  and 
ran  it  fairly  on  his  spear  point  as  it  came  toward 
him;  but  as  he  drew  his  lance  clear  his  horse 
came  down,  falling  across  him,  and  for  the  in 
stant  knocking  him  breathless.  It  was  all  over 
in  a  moment.  He  raised  his  head  to  see  the 
boar  turn  and  charge  him;  he  saw  where  his 
spear  point  had  torn  the  lower  lip  from  the  long 
tusks,  and  that  the  blood  was  pouring  down  its 
flank.  He  tried  to  draw  out  his  legs,  but  the 
pony  lay  fairly  across  him,  kicking  and  strug 
gling,  and  held  him  in  a  vise.  So  he  closed  his 
eyes  and  covered  his  head  with  his  arms,  and 
crouched  in  a  heap  waiting.  There  was  the 
quick  beat  of  a  pony's  hoofs  on  the  hard  soil, 
and  the  rush  of  the  boar  within  a  foot  of  his 
head,  and  when  he  looked  up  he  saw  Miss  Ter- 
rill  twisting  her  pony's  head  around  to  charge 
the  boar  again,  and  heard  her  shout,  "Let  me 
have  him!"  to  Mrs.  Carroll. 

Mrs.  Carroll   came   toward   Holcombe   with 
42 


THE  EXILES 

her  spear  pointed  dangerously  high;  she  stopped 
at  his  side  and  drew  in  her  rein  sharply.  "Why 
don't  you  get  up?  Are  you  hurt?"  she  said. 
"Wait;  lie  still,"  she  commanded,  "or  he'll 
tramp  on  you.  I'll  get  him  off."  She  slipped 
from  her  saddle  and  dragged  Holcombe's  pony 
to  his  feet.  Holcombe  stood  up  unsteadily, 
pale  through  his  tan  from  the  pain  of  the  fall 
and  the  moment  of  fear. 

"That  was  nasty,"  said  Mrs.  Carroll,  with  a 
quick  breath.  She  was  quite  as  pale  as  he. 

Holcombe  wiped  the  dirt  from  his  hair  and 
the  side  of  his  face,  and  looked  past  her  to 
where  Miss  Terrill  was  surveying  the  dead  boar 
from  her  saddle,  while  her  pony  reared  and 
shied,  quivering  with  excitement  beneath  her. 
Holcombe  mounted  stiffly  and  rode  toward 
her.  "I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  he 
said.  "If  you  hadn't  come — " 

The  girl  laughed  shortly,  and  shook  her  head 
without  looking  at  him.  "Why,  not  at  all," 
she  interrupted,  quickly.  "I  would  have  come 
just  as  fast  if  you  hadn't  been  there."  She 
turned  in  her  saddle  and  looked  at  him  frankly. 
"I  was  glad  to  see  you  go  down,"  she  said,  "for 
it  gave  me  the  first  good  chance  I've  had.  Are 
you  hurt?" 

Holcombe  drew  himself  up  stiffly,  regardless 
of  the  pain  in  his  neck  and  shoulder.  "No, 

43 


THE   EXILES 

I'm  all  right,  thank  you,"  he  answered.  "At 
the  same  time,"  he  called  after  her  as  she  moved 
away  to  meet  the  others,  "you  did  save  me  from 
being  torn  up,  whether  you  like  it  or  not." 

Mrs.  Carroll  was  looking  after  the  girl  with 
observant,  comprehending  eyes.  She  turned  to 
Holcombe  with  a  smile.  "There  are  a  few 
things  you  have  still  to  learn,  Mr.  Holcombe," 
she  said,  bowing  in  her  saddle  mockingly,  and 
dropping  the  point  of  her  spear  to  him  as  an 
adversary  does  in  salute.  "And  perhaps,"  she 
added,  "it  is  just  as  well  that  there  are." 

Holcombe  trotted  after  her  in  some  concern. 
"I  wonder  what  she  means?"  he  said.  "I 
wonder  if  I  were  rude?" 

The  pig-sticking  ended  with  a  long  luncheon 
before  the  ride  back  to  town,  at  which  every 
thing  that  could  be  eaten  or  drunk  was  put*on 
the  table,  in  order,  as  Meakim  explained,  that 
there  would  be  less  to  carry  back.  He  met 
Holcombe  that  same  evening  after  the  caval 
cade  had  reached  Tangier  as  the  latter  came 
down  the  stairs  of  the  Albion.  Holcombe  was 
in  fresh  raiment  and  cleanly  shaven,  and  with 
the  radiant  air  of  one  who  had  had  his  first  com 
fortable  bath  in  a  week. 

Meakim  confronted  him  with  a  smiling  coun 
tenance.  "Who  do  you  think  come  to-night 
on  the  mail-boat?"  he  asked. 

44 


THE  EXILES 

"I  don't  know.     Who?" 

"Winthrop  Allen,  with  six  trunks,"  said  Mea- 
kim,  with  the  triumphant  air  of  one  who  brings 
important  news. 

"No,  really  now,"  said  Holcombe,  laughing. 
"The  old  hypocrite!  I  wonder  what  he'll  say 
when  he  sees  me.  I  wish  I  could  stay  over  an 
other  boat,  just  to  remind  him  of  the  last  time 
we  met.  What  a  fraud  he  is !  It  was  at  the 
club,  and  he  was  congratulating  me  on  my 
noble  efforts  in  the  cause  of  justice,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  He  said  I  was  a  public  bene 
factor.  And  at  that  time  he  must  have  already 
speculated  away  about  half  of  what  he  had 
stolen  of  other  people's  money.  I'd  like  to 
tease  him  about  it." 

"What  trial  was  that?"  asked  Meakim. 

Holcombe  laughed  and  shook  his  head  as  he 
moved  on  down  the  stairs.  "Don't  ask  embar 
rassing  questions,  Meakim,"  he  said.  "It  was 
one  you  won't  forget  in  a  hurry." 

"Oh !"  said  Meakim,  with  a  grin.  "All  right. 
There's  some  mail  for  you  in  the  office." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Holcombe. 

A  few  hours  later  Carroll  was  watching  the 
roulette  wheel  in  the  gambling-hall  of  the  Isa 
bella  when  he  saw  Meakim  come  in  out  of  the 
darkness,  and  stand  staring  in  the  doorway, 

45 


THE  EXILES 

blinking  at  the  lights  and  mopping  his  face. 
He  had  been  running,  and  was  visibly  excited. 
Carroll  crossed  over  to  him  and  pushed  him 
out  into  the  quiet  of  the  terrace.  "What  is 
it?"  he  asked. 

"Have  you  seen  Holcombe?"  Meakim  de 
manded  in  reply. 

"Not  since  this  afternoon.     Why?" 

Meakim  breathed  heavily,  and  fanned  himself 
with  his  hat.  "Well,  he's  after  Winthrop  Allen, 
that's  all,"  he  panted.  "And  when  he  finds 
him  there's  going  to  be  a  muss.  The  boy's 
gone  crazy.  He's  not  safe." 

"Why?  What  do  you  mean?  What's  Allen 
done  to  him?" 

"Nothing  to  him,  but  to  a  friend  of  his.  He 
got  a  letter  to-night  in  the  mail  that  came  with 
Allen.  It  was  from  his  sister.  She  wrote  him. 
all  the  latest  news  about  Allen,  and  give  him 
fits  for  robbing  an  old  lady  who's  been  kind  to 
her.  She  wanted  that  Holcombe  should  come 
right  back  and  see  what  could  be  done  about  it. 
She  didn't  know,  of  course,  that  Allen  was  com 
ing  here.  The  old  lady  kept  a  private  school 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  Allen  had  charge  of  her 
savings." 

"What  is  her  name?"  Carroll  asked. 

"Field,  I  think.     Martha  Field  was " 

"The  dirty  blackguard!"  cried  Carroll.  He 
turned  sharply  away  and  returned  again  to 

46 


THE  EXILES 

seize  Meakim's  arm.  "Go  on,"  he  demanded. 
"What  did  she  say?" 

"You  know  her  too,  do  you?"  said  Meakim, 
shaking  his  head  sympathetically.  "Well,  that's 
all.  She  used  to  teach  his  sister.  She  seems  to 
be  a  sort  of  fashionable " 

"I  know,"  said  Carroll,  roughly.  "She 
taught  my  sister.  She  teaches  everybody's 
sister.  She's  the  sweetest,  simplest  old  soul 
that  ever  lived.  Holcombe's  dead  right  to  be 
angry.  She  almost  lived  at  their  house  when 
his  sister  was  HI." 

"Tut!  you  don't  say?"  commented  Meakim, 
gravely.  "Well,  his  sister's  pretty  near  crazy 
about  it.  He  give  me  the  letter  to  read.  It  got 
me  all  stirred  up.  It  was  just  writ  in  blood. 
She  must  be  a  fine  girl,  his  sister.  She  says  this 
Miss  Martha's  money  was  the  last  thing  Allen 
took.  He  didn't  use  her  stuff  to  speculate  with, 
but  cashed  it  in  just  before  he  sailed  and  took 
it  with  him  for  spending-money.  His  sister 
says  she's  too  proud  to  take  help,  and  she's  too 
old  to  work." 

"How  much  did  he  take?" 

"Sixty  thousand.  She's  been  saving  for  over 
forty  years." 

Carroll's  mind  took  a  sudden  turn.  "And 
Holcombe?"  he  demanded,  eagerly.  "What  is 
he  going  to  do?  Nothing  silly,  I  hope." 

"Well,  that's  just  it.  That's  why  I  come  to 
47 


THE  EXILES 

find  you,"  Meakim  answered,  uneasily.  "I 
don't  want  him  to  qualify  for  no  Criminal 
Stakes.  I  got  no  reason  to  love  him  either — 
But  you  know — "  he  ended,  impotently. 

"Yes,  I  understand/'  said  Carroll.  "That's 
what  I  meant.  Confound  the  boy,  why  didn't 
he  stay  in  his  law  courts !  What  did  he  say?" 

"Oh,  he  just  raged  around.  He  said  he'd 
tell  Allen  there  was  an  extradition  treaty  that 
Allen  didn't  know  about,  and  that  if  Allen 
didn't  give  him  the  sixty  thousand  he'd  put  it 
in  force  and  make  him  go  back  and  stand  trial." 

"Compounding  a  felony,  is  he?" 

"No,  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Meakim,  in 
dignantly.  "There  isn't  any  extradition  treaty, 
so  he  wouldn't  be  doing  anything  wrong  except 
lying  a  bit." 

"Well,  it's  blackmail,  anyway." 

"What,  blackmail  a  man  like  Allen?  Huh! 
He's  fair  game,  if  there  ever  was  any.  But  it 
won't  work  with  him,  that's  what  I'm  afraid 
of.  He's  too  cunning  to  be  taken  in  by  it,  he 
is.  He  had  good  legal  advice  before  he  came 
here,  or  he  wouldn't  have  come." 

Carroll  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  terrace. 
He  stopped  and  spoke  over  his  shoulder.  "  Does 
Holcombe  think  Allen  has  the  money  with 
him?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  he's  sure  of  it.  That's  what  makes 
48 


THE  EXILES 

him  so  keen.  He  says  Allen  wouldn't  dare 
bank  it  at  Gibraltar,  because  if  he  ever  went 
over  there  to  draw  on  it  he  would  get  caught, 
so  he  must  have  brought  it  with  him  here.  And 
he  got  here  so  late  that  Holcombe  believes  it's 
in  Allen's  rooms  now,  and  he's  like  a  dog  that 
smells  a  rat,  after  it.  Allen  wasn't  in  when 
he  went  up  to  his  room,  and  he's  started  out 
hunting  for  him,  and  if  he  don't  find  him  I 
shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  he  broke  into 
the  room  and  just  took  it." 

"For  God's  sake!"  cried  Carroll.  "He 
wouldn't  do  that?" 

Meakim  pulled  and  fingered  at  his  heavy 
watch-chain  and  laughed  doubtfully.  "I  don't 
know,"  he  said.  "He  wouldn't  have  done  it 
three  months  ago,  but  he's  picked  up  a  great 
deal  since  then — since  he  has  been  with  us. 
He's  asking  for  Captain  Reese,  too." 

"What's  he  want  with  that  blackguard?" 
"I  don't  know;    he  didn't  tell  me." 
"Come,"  said  Carroll,  quickly.     "We  must 
stop  him."     He  ran  lightly  down  the  steps  of 
the  terrace  to  the  beach,  with  Meakim  waddling 
heavily    after   him.     "He's   got   too   much   at 
stake,  Meakim,"   he   said,  in  half-apology,  as 
they  tramped  through  the  sand.     "He  mustn't 
spoil  it.     We  won't  let  him." 

Holcombe  had  searched  the  circuit  of  Tangier's 
49 


THE  EXILES 

small  extent  with  fruitless  effort,  his  anger  in 
creasing  momentarily  and  feeding  on  each  fresh 
disappointment.  When  he  had  failed  to  find 
the  man  he  sought  in  any  place,  he  returned  to 
the  hotel  and  pushed  open  the  door  of  the 
smoking-room  as  fiercely  as  though  he  meant 
to  take  those  within  by  surprise. 

"Has  Mr.  Allen  returned?"  he  demanded. 
"Or  Captain  Reese?"  The  attendant  thought 
not,  but  he  would  go  and  see.  "No,"  Hoi- 
combe  said,  "  I  will  look  for  myself."  He  sprang 
up  the  stairs  to  the  third  floor,  and  turned  down 
a  passage  to  a  door  at  its  farthest  end.  Here 
he  stopped  and  knocked  gently.  "Reese,"  he 
called;  "Reese!"  There  was  no  response  to 
his  summons,  and  he  knocked  again,  with  more 
impatience,  and  then  cautiously  turned  the 
handle  of  the  door,  and,  pushing  it  forward, 
stepped  into  the  room.  "Reese,"  he  said, 
softly,  "its  Holcombe.  Are  you  here?"  The 
room  was  dark  except  for  the  light  from  the 
hall,  which  shone  dimly  past  him  and  fell  upon 
a  gun-rack  hanging  on  the  wall  opposite.  Hoi- 
combe  hurried  toward  this  and  ran  his  hands 
over  it,  and  passed  on  quickly  from  that  to  the 
mantel  and  the  tables,  stumbling  over  chairs 
and  riding-boots  as  he  groped  about,  and  trip 
ping  on  the  skin  of  some  animal  that  lay 
stretched  upon  the  floor.  He  felt  his  way 

50 


THE  EXILES 

around  the  entire  circuit  of  the  room,  and 
halted  near  the  door  with  an  exclamation  of 
disappointment.  By  this  time  his  eyes  had 
become  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  and  he 
noted  the  white  surface  of  the  bed  in  a  far  corner 
and  ran  quickly  toward  it,  groping  with  his 
hands  about  the  posts  at  its  head.  He  closed 
his  fingers  with  a  quick  gasp  of  satisfaction  on 
a  leather  belt  that  hung  from  it,  heavy  with 
cartridges  and  a  revolver  that  swung  from  its 
holder.  Holcombe  pulled  this  out  and  jerked 
back  the  lever,  spinning  the  cylinder  around 
under  the  edge  of  his  thumb.  He  felt  the 
grease  of  each  cartridge  as  it  passed  under  his 
nail.  The  revolver  was  loaded  in  each  chamber, 
and  Holcombe  slipped  it  into  the  pocket  of  his 
coat  and  crept  out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door 
softly  behind  him.  He  met  no  one  in  the  hall 
or  on  the  stairs,  and  passed  on  quickly  to  a 
room  on  the  second  floor.  There  was  a  light 
in  this  room  which  showed  through  the  transom 
and  under  the  crack  at  the  floor,  and  there  was 
a  sound  of  some  one  moving  about  within. 
Holcombe  knocked  gently  and  waited. 

The  movement  on  the  other  side  of  the  door 
ceased,  and  after  a  pause  a  voice  asked  who  was 
there.  Holcombe  hesitated  a  second  before  an 
swering,  and  then  said,  "It  is  a  servant,  sir, 
with  a  note  for  Mr.  Allen." 


THE  EXILES 

At  the  sound  of  some  one  moving  toward  the 
door  from  within,  Holcombe  threw  his  shoulder 
against  the  panel  and  pressed  forward.  There 
was  the  click  of  the  key  turning  in  the  lock  and 
of  the  withdrawal  of  a  bolt,  and  the  door  was 
partly  opened.  Holcombe  pushed  it  back  with 
his  shoulder,  and,  stepping  quickly  inside,  closed 
it  again  behind  him. 

The  man  within,  into  whose  presence  he  had 
forced  himself,  confronted  him  with  a  look  of 
some  alarm,  which  increased  in  surprise  as  he. 
recognized  his  visitor.  "Why,  Holcombe!"  he 
exclaimed.  He  looked  past  him  as  though  ex 
pecting  some  one  else  to  follow.  "I  thought  it 
was  a  servant,"  he  said. 

Holcombe  made  no  answer,  but  surveyed  the 
other  closely,  and  with  a  smile  of  content.  The 
man  before  him  was  of  erect  carriage,  with  white 
hair  and  whiskers,  cut  after  an  English  fashion 
which  left  the  mouth  and  chin  clean  shaven. 
He  was  of  severe  and  dignified  appearance,  and 
though  standing  as  he  was  in  dishabille  still 
gave  in  his  bearing  the  look  of  an  elderly  gentle 
man  who  had  lived  a  self-respecting,  well-cared- 
for,  and  well-ordered  life.  The  room  about  him 
was  littered  with  the  contents  of  opened  trunks 
and  uncorded  boxes.  He  had  been  interrupted 
in  the  task  of  unpacking  and  arranging  these  pos 
sessions,  but  he  stepped  unresentfully  toward 

52 


THE   EXILES 

the  bed  where  his  coat  lay,  and  "pulled  it  on, 
feeling  at  the  open  collar  of  his  shirt,  and  giving 
a  glance  of  apology  toward  the  disorder  of  the 
apartment. 

"The  night  was  so  warm,"  he  said,  in  explana 
tion.  "I  have  been  trying  to  get  things  to 
rights.  I — "  He  was  speaking  in  some  ob 
vious  embarrassment,  and  looked  uncertainly 
toward  the  intruder  for  help.  But  Holcombe 
made  no  explanation,  and  gave  him  no  greeting. 
"I  heard  in  the  hotel  that  you  were  here,"  the 
other  continued,  still  striving  to  cover  up  the 
difficulty  of  the  situation,  "and  I  am  sorry  to 
hear  that  you  are  going  so  soon."  He  stopped, 
and  as  Holcombe  still  continued  smiling,  drew 
himself  up  stiffly.  The  look  on  his  face  hard 
ened  into  one  of  offended  dignity. 

"Really,  Mr.  Holcombe,"  he  said,  sharply, 
and  with  strong  annoyance  in  his  tone,  "if  you 
have  forced  yourself  into  this  room  for  no  other 
purpose  than  to  stand  there  and  laugh,  I  must 
ask  you  to  leave  it.  You  may  not  be  conscious 
of  it,  but  your  manner  is  offensive."  He  turned 
impatiently  to  the  table,  and  began  rearranging 
the  papers  upon  it.  Holcombe  shifted  the 
weight  of  his  body  as  it  rested  against  the  door 
from  one  shoulder-blade  to  the  other  and  closed 
his  hands  over  the  door-knob  behind  him. 

"I  had  a  letter  to-night  from  home  about 

53 


THE  EXILES 

you,  Allen,"  he  began,  comfortably.  "The  per 
son  who  wrote  it  was  anxious  that  I  should  re 
turn  to  New  York,  and  set  things  working  in 
the  District  Attorney's  office  in  order  to  bring 
you  back.  It  isn't  you  they  want  so  much 
as " 

"How  dare  you?"  cried  the  embezzler, 
sternly,  in  the  voice  with  which  one  might  in 
terrupt  another  in  words  of  shocking  blasphemy. 

"How  dare  I  what?"  asked  Holcombe. 

"How  dare  you  refer  to  my  misfortune? 
You  of  all  others — "  He  stopped,  and  looked 
at  his  visitor  with  flashing  eyes.  "I  thought 
you  a  gentleman,"  he  said,  reproachfully;  "I 
thought  you  a  man  of  the  world,  a  man  who  in 
spite  of  your  office,  official  position,  or,  rather, 
on  account  of  it,  could  feel  and  understand 
the — a — terrible  position  in  which  I  am  placed, 
and  that  you  would  show  consideration.  In 
stead  of  which,"  he  cried,  his  voice  rising  in 
indignation,  "you  have  come  apparently  to 
mock  at  me.  If  the  instinct  of  a  gentleman 
does  not  teach  you  to  be  silent,  I  shall  have  to 
force  you  to  respect  my  feelings.  You  can 
leave  the  room,  sir.  Now,  at  once."  He 
pointed  with  his  arm  at  the  door  against  which 
Holcombe  was  leaning,  the  fingers  of  his  out 
stretched  hand  trembling  visibly. 

"Nonsense.  Your  misfortune!  What  rot!" 
54 


THE  EXILES 

Holcombe  growled  resentfully.  His  eyes  wan 
dered  around  the  room  as  though  looking  for 
some  one  who  might  enjoy  the  situation  with 
him,  and  then  returned  to  Allen's  face.  "You 
mustn't  talk  like  that  to  me,"  he  said,  in  serious 
remonstrance.  "A  man  who  has  robbed  people 
who  trusted  him  for  three  years,  as  you  have 
done,  can't  afford  to  talk  of  his  misfortune. 
You  were  too  long  about  it,  Allen.  You  had 
too  many  chances  to  put  it  back.  You've  no 
feelings  to  be  hurt.  Besides,  if  you  have,  I'm 
in  a  hurry,  and  I've  not  the  time  to  consider 
them.  Now,  what  I  want  of  you  is — " 

"Mr.  Holcombe,"  interrupted  the  other,  ear 
nestly. 

"Sir,"  replied  the  visitor. 

"Mr.  Holcombe,"  began  Allen,  slowly,  and 
with  impressive  gravity,  "I  do  not  want  any 
words  with  you  about  this,  or  with  any  one  else. 
I  am  here  owing  to  a  combination  of  circum 
stances  which  have  led  me  through  hopeless, 
endless  trouble.  What  I  have  gone  through 
with  nobody  knows.  That  is  something  no 
one  but  I  can  ever  understand.  But  that  is 
now  at  an  end.  I  have  taken  refuge  in  flight 
and  safety,  where  another  might  have  remained 
and  compromised  and  suffered;  but  I  am  a 
weaker  brother,  and — as  for  punishment,  my 
own  conscience,  which  has  punished  me  so 

55 


THE  EXILES 

terribly  in  the  past,  will  continue  to  do  so  in 
the  future.  I  am  greatly  to  be  pitied,  Mr. 
Holcombe,  greatly  to  be  pitied.  And  no  one 
knows  that  better  than  yourself.  You  know 
the  value  of  the  position  I  held  in  New  York 
City,  and  how  well  I  was  suited  to  it,  and  it  to 
me.  And  now  I  am  robbed  of  it  all.  I  am  an 
exile  in  this  wilderness.  Surely,  Mr.  Holcombe, 
this  is  not  the  place  nor  the  time  when  you 
should  insult  me  by  recalling  the " 

"You  contemptible  hypocrite,"  said  Hol 
combe,  slowly.  "What  an  ass  you  must  think 
I  am!  Now,  listen  to  me." 

"No,  you  listen  to  me,"  thundered  the  other. 
He  stepped  menacingly  forward,  his  chest  heav 
ing  under  his  open  shirt,  and  his  fingers  opening 
and  closing  at  his  side.  "Leave  the  room,  I 
tell  you,"  he  cried,  "or  I  shall  call  the  servants 
and  make  you!"  He  paused  with  a  short, 
mocking  laugh.  "Who  do  you  think  I  am?" 
he  asked;  "a  child  that  you  can  insult  and  gibe 
at?  I'm  not  a  prisoner  in  the  box  for  you  to 
browbeat  and  bully,  Mr.  District  Attorney. 
You  seem  to  forget -that  I  am  out  of  your 
jurisdiction  now." 

He  waited,  and  his  manner  seemed  to  invite 
Holcombe  to  make  some  angry  answer  to  his 
tone,  but  the  young  man  remained  grimly 
silent. 


THE  EXILES 

"You  are  a  very  important  young  person  at 
home,  Harry,"  Allen  went  on,  mockingly. 
"But  New  York  State  laws  do  not  reach  as 
far  as  Africa." 

"Quite  right;  that's  it  exactly,"  said  Hoi- 
combe,  with  cheerful  alacrity.  "I'm  glad  you 
have  grasped  the  situation  so  soon.  That 
makes  it  easier  for  me.  Now,  what  I  have  been 
trying  to  tell  you  is  this.  I  received  a  letter 
about  you  to-night.  It  seems  that  before  leav 
ing  New  York  you  converted  bonds  and  mort 
gages  belonging  to  Miss  Martha  Field,  which 
she  had  intrusted  to  you,  into  ready  money. 
And  that  you  took  this  money  with  you.  Now, 
as  this  is  the  first  place  you  have  stopped. since 
leaving  New  York,  except  Gibraltar,  where  you 
could  not  have  banked  it,  you  must  have  it 
with  you  now,  here  in  this  town,  in  this  hotel, 
possibly  in  this  room.  What  else  you  have 
belonging  to  other  poor  devils  and  corporations 
does  not  concern  me.  It's  yours  as  far  as  I 
mean  to  do  anything  about  it.  But  this  sixty 
thousand  dollars  which  belongs  to  Miss  Field, 
who  is  the  best,  purest,  and  kindest  woman  I 
have  ever  known,  and  who  has  given  away  more 
money  than  you  ever  stole,  is  going  back 
with  me  to-morrow  to  New  York."  Hoi- 
combe  leaned  forward  as  he  spoke,  and  rapped 
with  his  knuckles  on  the  table.  Allen  con- 

57 


THE  EXILES 

fronted  him  in  amazement,  in  which  there  was 
not  so  much  surprise  at  what  the  other  threat 
ened  to  do  as  at  the  fact  that  it  was  he  who  had 
proposed  doing  it. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said,  slowly,  with 
the  air  of  a  bewildered  child. 

"  It's  plain  enough,"  replied  the  other,  impa 
tiently.  "I  tell  you  I  want  sixty  thousand 
dollars  of  the  money  you  have  with  you.  You 
can  understand  that,  can't  you?" 

"  But  how  ?  "  expostulated  Allen.  "  You  don't 
mean  to  rob  me,  do  you,  Harry?"  he  asked, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  You're  a  very  stupid  person  for  so  clever  a 
one,"  Holcombe  said,  impatiently.  "You  must 
give  me  sixty  thousand  dollars — and  if  you 
don't,  I'll  take  it.  Come,  now,  where  is  it — 
in  that  box?"  He  pointed  with  his  finger 
toward  a  square  travelling-case  covered  with 
black  leather  that  stood  open  on  "the  table 
filled  with  papers  and  blue  envelopes. 

"Take  it!"  exclaimed  Allen.  "You,  Henry 
Holcombe?  Is  it  you  who  are  speaking?  Do 
I  hear  you?"  He  looked  at  Holcombe  with 
eyes  full  of  genuine  wonder  and  a  touch  of  fear. 
As  he  spoke  his  hand  reached  out  mechan 
ically  and  drew  the  leather-bound  box  toward 
him. 

"Ah,  it  is  in  that  box,  then,"  said  Holcombe, 


THE  EXILES 

in  a  quiet,  grave  tone.  "Now  count  it  out,  and 
be  quick." 

"Are  you  drunk?"  cried  the  other,  fiercely. 
"Do  you  propose  to  turn  highwayman  and 
thief?  What  do  you  mean?"  Holcombe 
reached  quickly  across  the  table  toward  the 
box,  but  the  other  drew  it  back,  snapping  the 
lid  down,  and  hugging  it  close  against  his  breast. 
"If  you  move,  Holcombe,"  he  cried,  in  a  voice 
of  terror  and  warning,  "I'll  call  the  people  of 
the  house  and — and  expose  you." 

"Expose  me,  you  idiot,"  returned  Holcombe, 
fiercely.  "How  dare  you  talk  to  me  like  that !" 

Allen  dragged  the  table  more  evenly  between 
them,  as  a  general  works  on  his  defenses  even 
while  he  parleys  with  the  enemy.  "It's  you 
who  are  the  idiot!"  he  cried.  "Suppose  you 
could  overcome  me,  which  would  be  harder  than 
you  think,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  the 
money?  Do  you  suppose  I'd  let  you  leave  this 
country  with  it?  Do  you  imagine  for  a  moment 
that  I  would  give  it  up  without  raising  my 
hand?  I'd  have  you  dragged  to  prison  from 
your  bed  this  very  night,  or  I'd  have  you  seized 
as  you  set  your  foot  upon  the  wharf.  I  would 
appeal  to  our  ConsuI-General.  As  far  as  he 
knows,  I  am  as  worthy  of  protection  as  you  are 
yourself,  and,  failing  him,  I'd  appeal  to  the  law 
of  the  land."  He  stopped  for  want  of  breath, 

59 


THE  EXILES 

and  then  began  again  with  the  air  of  one  who 
finds  encouragement  in  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice.  "They  may  not  understand  extradition 
here,  Holcombe,"  he  said,  "but  a  thief  is  a  thief 
all  the  world  over.  What  you  may  be  in  New 
York  isn't  going  to  help  you  here;  neither  is 
your  father's  name.  To  these  people  you  would 
be  only  a  hotel  thief  who  forces  his  way  into 

other  men's  rooms  at  night  and " 

"You  poor  thing,"  interrupted  Holcombe. 
"Do  you  know  where  you  are?"  he  demanded. 
"You  talk,  Allen,  as  though  we  were  within 
sound  of  the  cable-cars  on  Broadway.  This 
hotel  is  not  the  Brunswick,  and  this  Consul- 
General  you  speak  of  is  another  blackguard  who 
knows  that  a  word  from  me  at  Washington,  on 
my  return,  or  a  letter  from  here  would  lose  him 
his  place  and  his  liberty.  He's  as  much  of  a 
rascal  as  any  of  them,  and  he  knows  that  I 
know  it  and  that  I  may  use  that  knowledge 
He  won't  help  you.  And  as  for  the  law  of  the 
land" — Holcombe's  voice  rose  and  broke  in  a 
mocking  laugh — "there  is  no  law  of  the  land. 
That's  why  you're  here!  You  are  in  a  place 
populated  by  exiles  and  outlaws  like  yourself, 
who  have  preyed  upon  society  until  society  has 
turned  and  frightened  each  of  them  off  like  a 
dog  with  his  tail  between  his  legs.  Don't  give 
yourself  confidence,  Allen.  That's  all  you  are, 

60 


THE  EXILES 

that's  all  we  are — two  dogs  fighting  for  a  stolen 
bone.  The  man  who  rules  you  here  is  an  ig 
norant  negro,  debauched  and  vicious  and  a 
fanatic.  He  is  shut  off  from  every  one,  even 
to  the  approach  of  a  British  ambassador.  And 
what  do  you  suppose  he  cares  for  a  dog  of  a 
Christian  like  you,  who  has  been  robbed  in  a 
hotel  by  another  Christian?  And  these  others. 
Do  you  suppose  they  care?  Call  out — cry  for 
help,  and  tell  them  that  you  have  half  a  million 
dollars  in  this  room,  and  they  will  fall  on  you 
and  strip  you  of  every  cent  of  it,  and  leave  you 
to  walk  the  beach  for  work.  Now,  what  are 
you  going  to  do?  Will  you  give  me  the  money 
I  want  to  take  back  where  it  belongs,  or  will 
you  call  for  help  and  lose  it  all?" 

The  two  men  confronted  each  other  across 
the  narrow  length  of  the  table.  The  blood  had 
run  to  Holcombe's  face,  but  the  face  of  the  other 
was  drawn  and  pale  with  fear. 

"You  can't  frighten  me,"  he  gasped,  rallying 
his  courage  with  an  effort  of  the  will.  "You 
are  talking  nonsense.  This  is  a  respectable 
hotel;  it  isn't  a  den  of  thieves.  You  are  trying 
to  frighten  me  out  of  the  money  with  your  lies 
and  your  lawyer's  tricks,  but  you  will  find  that 
I  am  not  so  easily  fooled.  You  are  dealing  with 
a  man,  Holcombe,  who  suffered  to  get  what  he 
has,  and  who  doesn't  mean  to  let  it  go  without 

61 


THE  EXILES 

a  fight  for  it.    Come  near  me,  I  warn  you,  and 
I  shall  call  for  help." 

Holcombe  backed  slowly  away  from  the  table 
and  tossed  up  his  hands  with  the  gesture  of  one 
who  gives  up  his  argument.  "You  will  have  it, 
will  you?"  he  muttered,  grimly.  "Very  well, 
you  shall  fight  for  it."  He  turned  quickly  and 
drove  in  the  bolt  of  the  door  and  placed  his 
shoulders  over  the  electric  button  in  the  wall. 
"I  have  warned  you,"  he  said,  softly.  "I  have 
told  you  where  you  are,  and  that  you  have 
nothing  to  expect  from  the  outside.  You  are 
absolutely  in  my  power  to  do  with  as  I  please." 
He  stopped,  and,  without  moving  his  eyes  from 
Allen's  face,  drew  the  revolver  from  the  pocket 
of  his  coat.  His  manner  was  so  terrible  that 
Allen  gazed  at  him,  breathing  faintly,  and  with 
his  eyes  fixed  in  horrible  fascination.  "There 
is  no  law,"  Holcombe  repeated,  softly.  "There 
is  no  help  for  you  now  or  later.  It  is  a  question 
of  two  men  locked  in  a  room  with  a  table  and 
sixty  thousand  dollars  between  them.  That  is 
the  situation.  Two  men  and  sixty  thousand 
dollars.  We  have  returned  to  first  principles, 
Allen.  It  is  a  man  against  a  man,  and  there  is 
no  Court  of  Appeal." 

Allen's  breath  came  back  to  him  with  a  gasp, 
as  though  he  had  been  shocked  with  a  sudden 
downpour  of  icy  water. 

62 


THE   EXILES 

"There  is!"  he  cried.  "There  is  a  Court  of 
Appeal.  For  God's  sake,  wait.  I  appeal  to 
Henry  Holcombe,  to  Judge  Holcombe's  son. 
I  appeal  to  your  good  name,  Harry,  to  your 
fame  in  the  world.  Think  what  you  are  doing; 
for  the  love  of  God,  don't  murder  me.  I'm  a 
criminal,  I  know,  but  not  what  you  would  be, 
Holcombe;  not  that.  You  are  mad  or  drunk. 
You  wouldn't,  you  couldn't  do  it.  Think  of 
it  I  You,  Henry  Holcombe.  You." 

The  fingers  of  Holcombe's  hand  moved  and 
tightened  around  the  butt  of  the  pistol,  the 
sweat  sprang  from  the  pores  of  his  palm.  He 
raised  the  revolver  and  pointed  it.  "My  sin's 
on  my  own  head,"  he  said.  "Give  me  the 
money." 

The  older  man  glanced  fearfully  back  of  him 
at  the  open  window,  through  which  a  sea  breeze 
moved  the  palms  outside,  so  that  they  seemed 
to  whisper  together  as  though  aghast  at  the 
scene  before  them.  The  window  was  three 
stories  from  the  ground,  and  Allen's  eyes  re 
turned  to  the  stern  face  of  the  younger  man. 
As  they  stood  silent  there  came  to  them  the 
sound  of  some  one  moving  in  the  hall,  and  of 
men's  voices  whispering  together.  Allen's  face 
lit  with  a  sudden  radiance  of  hope,  and  Hoi- 
combe's  arm  moved  uncertainly. 

"I  fancy,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  "that  those 

63 


THE  EXILES 

are  my  friends.  They  have  some  idea  of  my 
purpose,  and  they  have  come  to  learn  more. 
If  you  call,  I  will  let  them  in,  and  they  will 
strangle  you  into  silence  until  I  get  the 
money." 

The  two  men  eyed  each  other  steadily,  the 
older  seeming  to  weigh  the  possible  truth  of 
Holcombe's  last  words  in  his  mind.  Holcombe 
broke  the  silence  in  a  lighter  tone. 

"Playing  the  policeman  is  a  new  role  to  me," 
he  said,  "and  I  warn  you  that  I  have  but  little 
patience;  and,  besides,  my  hand  is  getting 
tired,  and  this  thing  is  at  full  cock." 

Allen,  for  the  first  time,  lowered  the  box  upon 
the  table  and  drew  from  it  a  bundle  of  notes 
bound  together  with  elastic  bandages.  Hoi- 
combe's  eyes  lighted  as  brightly  at  the  sight  as 
though  the  notes  were  for  his  own  private 
pleasures  in  the  future. 

"Be  quick!"  he  said.  "I  cannot  be  respon 
sible  for  the  men  outside." 

Allen  bent  over  the  money,  his  face  drawing 
into  closer  and  sharper  lines  as  the  amount 
grew,  under  his  fingers,  to  the  sum  Holcombe 
had  demanded. 

"Sixty  thousand!"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  des 
perate  calm. 

"Good!"  whispered  Holcombe.  "Pass  it 
over  to  me.  I  hope  I  have  taken  the  most 

64 


THE  EXILES 

of  what  you  have,"  he  said,  as  he  shoved  the 
notes  into  his  pocket;  "but  this  is  something. 
Now  I  warn  you,"  he  added,  as  he  lowered  the 
trigger  of  the  revolver  and  put  it  out  of  sight, 
"that  any  attempt  to  regain  this  will  be  futile. 
I  am  surrounded  by  friends;  no  one  knows  you 
or  cares  about  you.  I  shall  sleep  in  my  room 
to-night  without  precaution,  for  I  know  that 
the  money  is  now  mine.  Nothing  you  can  do 
will  recall  it.  Your  cue  is  silence  and  secrecy 
as  to  what  you  have  lost  and  as  to  what  you 
still  have  with  you/* 

He  stopped  in  some  confusion,  interrupted  by 
a  sharp  knock  at  the  door  and  two  voices  calling 
his  name.  Allen  shrank  back  in  terror. 

"You  coward!"  he  hissed.  "You  promised 
me  you'd  be  content  with  what  you  have." 
Holcombe  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  "And 
now  your  accomplices  are  to  have  their  share, 
too,  are  they?"  the  embezzler  whispered, 
fiercely.  "You  lied  to  me;  you  mean  to  take 
it  all." 

Holcombe,  for  an  answer,  drew  back  the  bolt, 
but  so  softly  that  the  sound  of  his  voice  drowned 
the  noise  it  made. 

"No,  not  to-night,"  he  said,  briskly,  so  that 
the  sound  of  his  voice  penetrated  into  the  hall 
beyond.  "I  mustn't  stop  any  longer,  I'm 
keeping  you  up.  It  has  been  very  pleasant  to 


THE  EXILES 

have  heard  all  that  news  from  home.  It  was 
such  a  chance,  my  seeing  you  before  I  sailed. 
Good-night."  He  paused  and  pretended  to 
listen.  "No,  Allen,  I  don't  think  it's  a  ser 
vant,"  he  said.  "It's  some  of  my  friends 
looking  for  me.  This  is  my  last  night  on  shore, 
you  see."  He  threw  open  the  door  and  con 
fronted  Meakim  and  Carroll  as  they  stood  in 
some  confusion  in  the  dark  hall.  "Yes,  it  is 
some  of  my  friends,"  Holcombe  continued. 
"  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  minute,"  he  said  to  them. 
Then  he  turned,  and,  crossing  the  room  in  their 
sight,  shook  Allen  by  the  hand,  and  bade  him 
good-night  and  good-by. 

The  embezzler's  revulsion  of  feeling  was  so 
keen  and  the  relief  so  great  that  he  was  able  to 
smile  as  Holcombe  turned  and  left  him.  "I 
wish  you  a  pleasant  voyage,"  he  said,  faintly. 

Then  Holcombe  shut  the  door  on  him,  closing 
him  out  from  their  sight.  He  placed  his  hands 
on  a  shoulder  of  each  of  the  two  men  and  jumped 
step  by  step  down  the  stairs  like  a  boy  as  they 
descended  silently  in  front  of  him.  At  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  Carroll  turned  and  confronted  him 
sternly,  staring  him  in  the  face.  Meakim  at 
one  side  eyed  him  curiously. 

"Well?"  said  Carroll,  with  one  hand  upon 
Holcombe's  wrist. 

Holcombe  shook  his  hand  free,  laughing. 
66 


THE  EXILES 

"Well,"  he  answered,  "I  persuaded  him  to 
make  restitution." 

"You  persuaded  him!"  exclaimed  Carroll, 
impatiently.  "How?" 

Holcombe's  eyes  avoided  those  of  the  two 
inquisitors.  He  drew  a  long  breath,  and  then 
burst  into  a  loud  fit  of  hysterical  laughter. 
The  two  men  surveyed  him  grimly.  "I  argued 
with  him,  of  course,"  said  Holcombe,  gayly. 
"That  is  my  business,  man;  you  forget  that  I 
am  a  District  Attorney " 

"We  didn't  forget  it,"  said  Carroll,  fiercely. 
"Did  you?  What  did  you  do?" 

Holcombe  backed  away  up  the  stairs  shaking 
his  head  and  laughing.  "I  shall  never  tell 
you,"  he  said.  He  pointed  with  his  hand  down 
the  second  flight  of  stairs.  "Meet  me  in  the 
smoking-room,"  he  continued.  "  I  will  be  there 
in  a  minute,  and  we  will  have  a  banquet.  Ask 
the  others  to  come.  I  have  something  to  do 
first." 

The  two  men  turned  reluctantly  away,  and 
continued  on  down  the  stairs  without  speaking 
and  with  their  faces  filled  with  doubt.  Hol 
combe  ran  first  to  Reese's  room  and  replaced 
the  pistol  in  its  holder.  He  was  trembling  as 
he  threw  the  thing  from  him,  and  had  barely 
reached  his  own  room  and  closed  the  door 
when  a  sudden  faintness  overcame  him.  The 

67 


THE  EXILES 

weight  he  had  laid  on  his  nerves  was  gone  and 
the  laughter  had  departed  from  his  face.  He 
stood  looking  back  at  what  he  had  escaped  as 
a  man  reprieved  at  the  steps  of  the  gallows 
turns  his  head  to  glance  at  the  rope  he  has 
cheated.  Holcombe  tossed  the  bundle  of  notes 
upon  the  table  and  took  an  unsteady  step  across 
the  room.  Then  he  turned  suddenly  and  threw 
himself  upon  his  knees  and  buried  his  face  in 
the  pillow. 

The  sun  rose  the  next  morning  on  a  cool, 
beautiful  day,  and  the  Consul's  boat,  with  the 
American  flag  trailing  from  the  stern,  rose  and 
fell  on  the  bluest  of  blue  waters  as  it  carried 
Holcombe  and  his  friends  to  the  steamer's  side. 

"We  are  going  to  miss  you  very  much," 
Mrs.  Carroll  said.  "I  hope  you  won't  forget 
to  send  us  word  of  yourself." 

Miss  Terrill  said  nothing.  She  was  leaning 
over  the  side  trailing  her  hand  in  the  water, 
and  watching  it  run  between  her  slim  pink 
fingers.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  find  Holcombe 
looking  at  her  intently  with  a  strange  expression 
of  wistfulness  and  pity,  at  which  she  smiled 
brightly  back  at  him,  and  began  to  plan  vi 
vaciously  with  Captain  Reese  for  a  ride  that 
same  afternoon. 

They  separated  over  the  steamer's  deck,  and 
Meakim,  for  the  hundredth  time,  and  in  the 

68 


THE  EXILES 

lack  of  conversation  which  comes  at  such 
moments,  offered  Holcombe  a  fresh  cigar. 

"But  I  have  got  eight  of  yours  now,"  said 
Holcombe. 

"That's  all  right;  put  it  in  your  pocket," 
said  the  Tammany  chieftain,  "and  smoke  it 
after  dinner.  You'll  need  'em.  They're  better 
than  those  you'll  get  on  the  steamer,  and  they 
never  went  through  a  custom-house." 

Holcombe  cleared  his  throat  in  some  slight 
embarrassment.  "Is  there  anything  I  can  do 
for  you  in  New  York,  Meakim?"  he  asked. 
"Anybody  I  can  see,  or  to  whom  I  can  deliver 
a  message?" 

"No,"  said  Meakim.  "I  write  pretty  often. 
Don't  you  worry  about  me,"  he  added,  grate 
fully.  "I'll  be  back  there  some  day  myself, 
when  the  law  of  limitation  lets  me." 

Holcombe  laughed.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I'd 
be  glad  to  do  something  for  you  if  you'd  let  me 
know  what  you'd  like." 

Meakim  put  his  hands  behind  his  back  and 
puffed  meditatively  on  his  cigar,  rolling  it  be 
tween  his  lips  with  his  tongue.  Then  he  turned 
it  between  his  fingers  and  tossed  the  ashes  over 
the  side  of  the  boat.  He  gave  a  little  sigh,  and 
then  frowned  at  having  done  so.  "I'll  tell 
you  what  you  can  do  for  me,  Holcombe,"  he 
said,  smiling.  "Some  night  I  wish  you  would 

69 


THE  EXILES 

go  down  to  Fourteenth  Street,  some  night  this 
spring,  when  the  boys  are  sitting  out  on  the 
steps  in  front  of  the  Hall,  and  just  take  a  drink 
for  me  at  Ed  Lally's;  just  for  luck.  Will  you? 
That's  what  I'd  like  to  do.  I  don't  know 
nothing  better  than  Fourteenth  Street  of  a 
summer  evening,  with  all  the  people  crowding 
into  Pastor's  on  one  side  of  the  Hall,  and  the 
Third  Avenue  L  cars  running  by  on  the  other. 
That's  a  gay  sight;  ain't  it  now?  With  all 
the  girls  coming  in  and  out  of  Theiss's,  and  the 
sidewalks  crowded.  One  of  them  warm  nights 
when  they  have  to  have  the  windows  open, 
and  you  can  hear  the  music  in  at  Pastor's,  and 
the  audience  clapping  their  hands.  That's 
great,  isn't  it?  Well,"  he  laughed  and  shook 
his  head.  "I'll  be  back  there  some  day,  won't 
I,"  he  said,  wistfully,  "and  hear  it  for  myself." 

"Carroll,"  said  Holcombe,  drawing  the  former 
to  one  side,  "suppose  I  see  this  cabman  when  I 
reach  home,  and  get  him  to  withdraw  the  charge, 
or  agree  not  to  turn  up  when  it  comes  to  trial." 

Carroll's  face  clouded  in  an  instant.  "Now, 
listen  to  me,  Holcombe,"  he  said.  "You  let 
my  dirty  work  alone.  There's  lots  of  my  friends 
who  have  nothing  better  to  do  than  just  that. 
You  have  something  better  to  do,  and  you 
leave  me  and  my  rows  to  others.  I  like  you 
for  what  you  are,  and  not  for  what  you  can 

70 


THE  EXILES 

do  for  me.  I  don't  mean  that  I  don't  ap 
preciate  your  offer,  but  it  shouldn't  have  come 
from  an  Assistant  District  Attorney  to  a  fugitive 
criminal." 

"What  nonsense!"  said  Holcombe. 

"Don't  say  that;  don't  say  that!"  said 
Carroll,  quickly,  as  though  it  hurt  him.  "You 
wouldn't  have  said  it  a  month  ago." 

Holcombe  eyed  the  other  with  an  alert,  confi 
dent  smile.  "No,  Carroll,"  he  answered,  "I 
would  not."  He  put  his  hand  on  the  other's 
shoulder  with  a  suggestion  in  his  manner  of 
his  former  self,  and  with  a  touch  of  patronage. 
"I  have  learned  a  great  deal  in  a  month,"  he 
said.  "Seven  battles  were  won  in  seven  days 
once.  All  my  life  I  have  been  fighting  causes, 
Carroll,  and  principles.  I  have  been  working 
with  laws  against  law-breakers.  I  have  never 
yet  fought  a  man.  It  was  not  poor  old  Mea- 
kim,  the  individual,  I  prosecuted,  but  the 
corrupt  politician.  Now,  here  I  have  been 
thrown  with  men  and  women  on  as  equal  terms 
as  a  crew  of  sailors  cast  away  upon  a  desert 
island.  We  were  each  a  law  unto  himself. 
And  I  have  been  brought  face  to  face,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  not  with  principles  of 
conduct,  not  with  causes,  and  not  with  laws, 
but  with  my  fellow  men." 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA 
CITY 

THE  day  was  cruelly  hot,  with  unwarranted 
gusts  of  wind  which  swept  the  red  dust  in  fierce 
eddies  in  at  one  end  of  Main  Street  and  out  at 
the  other,  and  waltzed  fantastically  across  the 
prairie.  When  they  had  passed,  human  beings 
opened  their  eyes  again  to  blink  hopelessly  at  the 
white  sun,  and  swore  or  gasped,  as  their  nature 
moved  them.  There  were  very  few  human  be 
ings  in  the  streets,  either  in  Houston  Avenue, 
where  there  were  dwelling-houses,  or  in  the 
business  quarter  on  Main  Street.  They  were  all 
at  the  new  court-house,  and  every  one  possessed 
of  proper  civic  pride  was  either  in  the  packed 
court-room  itself,  or  standing  on  the  high  steps 
outside,  or  pacing  the  long,  freshly  calcimined 
corridors,  where  there  was  shade  and  less  dust. 
It  was  an  eventful  day  in  the  history  of  Zepata 
City.  The  court-house  had  been  long  in  coming, 
the  appropriation  had  been  denied  again  and 
again;  but  at  last  it  stood  a  proud  and  hideous 
fact,  like  a  gray  prison,  towering  above  the 
bare,  undecorated  brick  stores  and  the  frame 
houses  on  the  prairie  around  it,  new,  raw,  and 

72 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

cheap,  from  the  tin  statue  on  the  dome  to  the 
stucco  round  its  base  already  cracking  with 
the  sun.  Piles  of  lumber  and  scaffolding  and 
the  lime  beds  the  builders  had  left  still  lay  on 
the  unsodded  square,  and  the  bursts  of  wind 
drove  the  shavings  across  it,  as  they  had  done 
since  the  first  day  of  building,  when  the  Hon. 
Horatio  Macon,  who  had  worked  for  the  appro 
priation,  had  laid  the  corner-stone  and  received 
the  homage  of  his  constituents. 

It  seemed  a  particularly  happy  and  appro 
priate  circumstance  that  the  first  business  in 
the  new  court-room  should  be  of  itself  of  an 
important  and  momentous  nature,  something 
that  dealt  not  only  with  the  present  but  with 
the  past  of  Zepata,  and  that  the  trial  of  so  cele 
brated  an  individual  as  Abe  Barrow  should  open 
the  court-house  with  eclat,  as  Emma  Abbott, 
who  had  come  all  the  way  from  San  Antonio 
to  do  it,  had  opened  the  new  opera-house  the 
year  before.  The  District  Attorney  had  said 
it  would  not  take  very  long  to  dispose  of  Bar 
row's  case,  but  he  had  promised  it  would  be  an 
interesting  if  brief  trial,  and  the  court-room 
was  filled  even  to  the  open  windows,  where 
men  sat  crowded  together,  with  the  perspiration 
running  down  their  faces,  and  the  red  dust 
settling  and  turning  white  upon  their  shoulders. 

Abe  Barrow,  the  prisoner,  had  been  as  closely 

73 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

associated  with  the  early  history  of  Zepata  as 
Colonel  Macon  himself,  and  was  as  widely 
known;  he  had  killed  in  his  day  several  of  the 
Zepata  citizens,  and  two  visiting  brother-des 
peradoes,  and  the  corner  where  his  gambling- 
house  had  stood  was  still  known  as  Barrow's 
Corner,  to  the  regret  of  the  druggist  who  had 
opened  a  shop  there.  Ten  years  before,  the 
murder  of  Deputy  Sheriff  Welsh  had  led  him 
to  the  penitentiary,  and  a  month  previous  to 
the  opening  of  the  new  court-house  he  had 
been  freed,  and  arrested  at  the  prison  gate  to 
stand  trial  for  the  murder  of  Hubert  Thompson. 
The  fight  with  Thompson  had  been  a  fair  fight 
— so  those  said  who  remembered  it — and  Thomp 
son  was  a  man  they  could  well  spare;  but  the 
case  against  Barrow  had  been  prepared  during 
his  incarceration  by  the  new  and  youthful  Dis 
trict  Attorney,  "Judge"  Henry  Harvey,  and  as 
it  offered  a  fitting  sacrifice  for  the  dedication 
of  the  new  temple  of  justice,  the  people  were 
satisfied  and  grateful. 

The  court-room  was  as  bare  of  ornament  as 
the  cell  from  which  the  prisoner  had  just  been 
taken.  There  was  an  imitation  walnut  clock 
at  the  back  of  the  Judge's  hair-cloth  sofa,  his 
revolving  chair,  and  his  high  desk.  This  was 
the  only  ornament.  Below  was  the  green  table 
of  the  District  Attorney,  upon  which  rested  his 

74 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

papers  and  law-books  and  his  high  hat.  To  one 
side  sat  the  jury,  ranch-owners  and  prominent 
citizens,  proud  of  having  to  serve  on  this  the 
first  day;  and  on  the  other  the  prisoner  in  his 
box.  Around  them  gathered  the  citizens  of 
Zepata  in  close  rows,  crowded  together  on  un- 
painted  benches;  back  of  them  more  citizens 
standing  and  a  few  awed  Mexicans;  and  around 
all  the  whitewashed  walls.  Colonel  John  Sto- 
gart,  of  Dallas,  the  prisoner's  attorney,  procured 
obviously  at  great  expense,  no  one  knew  by 
whom,  and  Barrow's  wife,  a  thin  yellow-faced 
woman  in  a  mean-fitting  showy  gown,  sat 
among  the  local  celebrities  at  the  District  At 
torney's  elbow.  She  was  the  only  woman  in 
the  room. 

Colonel  Stogart's  speech  had  been  good.  The 
citizens  were  glad  it  had  been  so  good;  it  had 
kept  up  the  general  tone  of  excellence,  and  it 
was  well  that  the  best  lawyer  of  Dallas  should 
be  present  on  this  occasion,  and  that  he  should 
have  made  what  the  citizens  of  Zepata  were 
proud  to  believe  was  one  of  the  efforts  of  his 
life.  As  they  said,  a  court-house  such  as  this 
one  was  not  open  for  business  every  day.  It 
was  also  proper  that  Judge  Truax,  who  was  a 
real  Judge,  and  not  one  by  courtesy  only,  as 
was  the  young  District  Attorney,  should  sit 
upon  the  bench.  He  also  was  associated  with 

75 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

the  early  days  and  with  the  marvellous  growth 
of  Zepata  City.  He  had  taught  the  young 
District  Attorney  much  of  what  he  knew,  and 
his  long  white  hair  and  silver-rimmed  spectacles 
gave  dignity  and  the  appearance  of  calm  justice 
to  the  bare  room  and  to  the  heated  words  of 
the  rival  orators. 

Colonel  Stogart  ceased  speaking,  and  the 
District  Attorney  sucked  in  his  upper  lip  with 
a  nervous,  impatient  sigh  as  he  recognized  that 
the  visiting  attorney  had  proved  murder  in  the 
second  degree,  and  that  an  execution  in  the 
jail-yard  would  not  follow  as  a  fitting  se 
quence. 

But  he  was  determined  that  so  far  as  in  him 
lay  he  would  at  least  send  his  man  back  to  the 
penitentiary  for  the  remainder  of  his  life. 

Young  Harry  Harvey,  "The  Boy  Orator  of 
Zepata  City,'*  as  he  was  called,  was  very  dear 
to  the  people  of  that  booming  town.  In  their 
eyes  he  was  one  of  the  most  promising  young 
men  in  the  whole  great  unwieldy  State  of  Texas, 
and  the  boy  orator  thought  they  were  probably 
right,  but  he  was  far  too  clever  to  let  them  see 
it.  He  was  clever  in  his  words  and  in  his  deeds 
and  in  his  appearance.  And  he  dressed  much 
more  carefully  than  any  other  man  in  town, 
with  a  frock-coat  and  a  white  tie  winter  and 
summer,  and  a  fine  high  hat.  That  he  was 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

slight  and  short  of  stature  was  something  he 
could  not  help,  and  was  his  greatest,  keenest 
regret,  and  that  Napoleon  was  also  short  and 
slight  did  not  serve  to  satisfy  him  or  to  make 
his  regret  less  continual.  What  availed  the 
sharply  cut,  smoothly  shaven  face  and  the  eyes 
that  flashed  when  he  was  moved,  or  the  bell- 
like  voice,  if  every  unlettered  ranchman  or 
ranger  could  place  both  hands  on  his  shoulders 
and  look  down  at  him  from  heights  above? 
But  they  forgot  this  and  he  forgot  it  before  he 
had  reached  the  peroration  of  his  closing  speech. 
They  saw  only  the  Harry  Harvey  they  knew 
and  adored  moving  and  rousing  them  with  his 
voice,  trembling  with  indignation  when  he 
wished  to  tremble,  playing  all  his  best  tricks 
in  his  best  manner,  and  cutting  the  air  with 
sharp,  cruel  words  when  he  was  pleased  to  be 
righteously  just. 

The  young  District  Attorney  turned  slowly 
on  his  heels,  and  swept  the  court-room  care 
lessly  with  a  glance  of  the  clever  black  eyes. 
The  moment  was  his.  He  saw  all  the  men  he 
knew — the  men  who  made  his  little  world — 
crowding  silently  forward,  forgetful  of  the  heat, 
of  the  suffocating  crush  of  those  about  them, 
of  the  wind  that  rattled  the  doors  in  the  corri 
dors,  and  conscious  only  of  him.  He  saw  his 
old  preceptor  watching  keenly  from  the  bench, 

77 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

with  a  steady  glance  of  perfect  appreciation, 
such  as  that  with  which  one  actor  in  the  box 
compliments  the  other  on  the  stage.  He  saw 
the  rival  attorney — the  great  lawyer  from  the 
great  city — nervously  smiling,  with  a  look  of 
confidence  that  told  the  lack  of  it;  and  he  saw 
the  face  of  the  prisoner  grim  and  set  and  hope 
lessly  defiant.  The  boy  orator  allowed  his  up 
lifted  arm  to  fall  until  the  fingers  pointed  at  the 
prisoner. 

"This  man,"  he  said,  and  as  he  spoke  even 
the  wind  in  the  corridors  hushed  for  the  mo 
ment,  "is  no  part  or  parcel  of  Zepata  City  of 
to-day.  He  comes  to  us  a  relic  of  the  past — 
a  past  that  has  brought  honor  to  many,  wealth 
to  some,  and  which  is  dear  to  all  of  us  who  love 
the  completed  purpose  of  their  work;  a  past 
that  was  full  of  hardships  and  glorious  efforts 
in  the  face  of  daily  disappointments,  embitter- 
ments,  and  rebuffs.  But  the  part  this  man 
played  in  that  past  lives  only  in  the  rude  court 
records  of  that  day,  in  the  traditions  of  the 
gambling-hell  and  the  saloons,  and  on  the  head 
stones  of  his  victims.  He  was  one  of  the  ex 
crescences  of  that  unsettled  period,  an  unhappy 
evil — an  inevitable  evil,  I  might  almost  say,  as 
the  Mexican  horse-thieves  and  the  prairie  fires 
and  the  Indian  outbreaks  were  inevitable,  as 
our  fathers  who  built  this  beautiful  city  knew 

78 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

to  their  cost.  The  same  chance  that  was  given 
to  them  to  make  a  home  for  themselves  in  the 
wilderness,  to  help  others  to  make  their  homes, 
to  assist  the  civilization  and  progress  not  only 
of  this  city,  but  of  the  whole  Lone  Star  State, 
was  given  to  him,  and  he  refused  it,  and  blocked 
the  way  of  others,  and  kept  back  the  march  of 
progress,  until  to-day,  civilization,  which  has 
waxed  great  and  strong — not  on  account  of 
him,  remember,  but  in  spite  of  him — sweeps 
him  out  of  its  way,  and  crushes  him  and  his 
fellows." 

The  young  District  Attorney  allowed  his  arm 
to  drop,  and  turned  to  the  jury,  leaning  easily 
with  his  bent  knuckles  on  the  table. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  his  pleasant  tones 
of  every-day  politeness,  "the  'bad  man'  has 
become  an  unknown  quantity  in  Zepata  City 
and  in  the  State  of  Texas.  It  lies  with  you 
to  see  that  he  remains  so.  He  went  out  of 
existence  with  the  blanket  Indian  and  the 
buffalo.  He  is  dead,  and  he  must  not  be  resur 
rected.  He  was  a  picturesque  evil  of  those  early 
days,  but  civilization  has  no  use  for  him,  and 
it  has  killed  him,  as  the  railroads  and  the  barb- 
wire  fence  have  killed  the  cowboy.  He  does 
not  belong  here;  he  does  not  fit  in;  he  is  not 
wanted.  We  want  men  who  can  breed  good 
cattle,  who  can  build  manufactories  and  open 

79 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

banks;  storekeepers  who  can  undersell  those  of 
other  cities;  and  professional  men  who  know 
their  business.  We  do  not  want  desperadoes 
and  'bad  men*  and  faro-dealers  and  men  who 
are  quick  on  the  trigger.  A  foolish  and  morbid 
publicity  has  cloaked  men  of  this  class  with  a 
notoriety  which  cheap  and  pernicious  literature 
has  greatly  helped  to  disseminate.  They  have 
been  made  romantic  when  they  were  brutal, 
brave  when  they  were  foolhardy,  heroes  when 
they  were  only  bullies  and  blackguards.  This 
man,  Abe  Barrow,  the  prisoner  at  the  bar, 
belongs  to  that  class.  He  enjoys  and  has  en 
joyed  a  reputation  as  a  'bad  man/  a  desperate 
and  brutal  ruffian.  Free  him  to-day,  and  you 
set  a  premium  on  such  reputations;  acquit  him 
of  this  crime,  and  you  encourage  others  to  like 
evil.  Let  him  go,  and  he  will  walk  the  streets 
with  a  swagger,  and  boast  that  you  were  afraid 
to  touch  him — afraid,  gentlemen — and  children 
and  women  will  point  after  him  as  the  man  who 
has  sent  nine  others  into  eternity,  and  who  yet 
walks  the  streets  a  free  man.  And  he  will  be 
come,  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  and  the  weak, 
a  hero  and  a  god.  This  is  unfortunate,  but  it 
is  true. 

"Now,  gentlemen,  we  want  to  keep  the 
streets  of  this  city  so  safe  that  a  woman  can 
walk  them  at  midnight  without  fear  of  insult, 

80 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

and  a  man  can  express  his  opinion  on  the  corner 
without  being  shot  in  the  back  for  doing  so." 

The  District  Attorney  turned  from  the  jury 
with  a  bow,  and  faced  Judge  Truax. 

"  For  the  last  ten  years,  your  honor,  this  man, 
Abner  Barrow,  has  been  serving  a  term  of  im 
prisonment  in  the  State  penitentiary;  I  ask 
you  to  send  him  back  there  again  for  the  re 
mainder  of  his  life.  It  will  be  the  better  place 
for  him,  and  we  will  be  happier  in  knowing  we 
have  done  our  duty  in  placing  him  there.  Abe 
Barrow  is  out  of  date.  He  has  missed  step 
with  the  march  of  progress,  and  has  been  out 
of  step  for  ten  years,  and  it  is  best  for  all  that 
he  should  remain  out  of  it  until  he,  who  has  sent 
nine  other  men  unprepared  to  meet  their 
God " 

"He  is  not  on  trial  for  the  murder  of  nine 
men,"  interrupted  Colonel  Stogart,  springing 
from  his  chair,  "but  for  the  justifiable  killing 

of  one,  and  I  demand,  your  honor,  that " 

—has  sent  nine  other  men  to  meet  their 
Maker,"  continued  the  District  Attorney, 
"meets  with  the  awful  judgment  of  a  higher 
court  than  this." 

Colonel  Stogart  smiled  scornfully  at  the  plati 
tude,  and  sat  down  with  an  expressive  shrug; 
but  no  one  noticed  him. 

The   District  Attorney  raised   his   arm  and 
81  * 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

faced  the  court-room.  "It  cannot  be  said  of 
us,"  he  cried,  "that  we  have  sat  idle  in  the 
market-place.  We  have  advanced  and  ad 
vanced  in  the  last  ten  years,  until  we  have 
reached  the  very  foremost  place  with  civilized 
people.  This  Rip  Van  Winkle  of  the  past 
returns  to  find  a  city  where  he  left  a  prairie 
town,  a  bank  where  he  spun  his  roulette  wheel, 
this  magnificent  court-house  instead  of  a  vigi 
lance  committee.  And  what  is  his  part  in  this 
new  court-house,  which  to-day,  for  the  first 
time,  throws  open  its  doors  to  protect  the  just 
and  to  punish  the  unjust? 

"  Is  he  there  in  the  box  among  those  honorable 
men,  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury?  Is  he  in  that 
great  crowd  of  intelligent,  public-spirited  citi 
zens  who  make  the  bone  and  sinew  of  this  our 
fair  city?  Is  he  on  the  honored  bench  dis 
pensing  justice,  and  making  the  intricacies  of 
the  law  straight?  No,  gentlemen;  he  has  no 
part  in  our  triumph.  He  is  there,  in  the  pris 
oners'  pen,  an  outlaw,  a  convicted  murderer, 
and  an  unconvicted  assassin,  the  last  of  his  race 
— the  bullies  and  bad  men  of  the  border — a 
thing  to  be  forgotten  and  put  away  forever  from 
the  sight  of  man.  He  has  outlasted  his  time; 
he  is  a  superfluity  and  an  outrage  on  our  reign 
of  decency  and  order.  And  I  ask  you,  gentle 
men,  to  put  him  away  where  he  will  not  hear 

82 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

the  voice  of  man  nor  children's  laughter,  nor 
see  a  woman  smile,  where  he  will  not  even  see 
the  face  of  the  warden  who  feeds  him,  nor  sun 
light  except  as  it  is  filtered  through  the  iron 
bars  of  a  jail.  Bury  him  with  the  bitter  past, 
with  the  lawlessness  that  has  gone — that  has 
gone,  thank  God — and  which  must  not  return. 
Place  him  in  the  cell  where  he  belongs,  and 
whence,  had  justice  been  done,  he  would  never 
have  been  taken  alive." 

The  District  Attorney  sat  down  suddenly, 
with  a  quick  nod  to  the  Judge  and  the  jury, 
and  fumbled  over  his  papers  with  nervous 
fingers.  He  was  keenly  conscious,  and  excited 
with  the  fervor  of  his  own  words.  He  heard 
the  reluctantly  hushed  applause  and  the  whis 
pers  of  the  crowd,  and  noted  the  quick  and 
combined  movement  of  the  jury  with  a  selfish 
sweet  pleasure,  which  showed  itself  only  in  the 
tightening  of  the  lips  and  nostrils.  Those 
nearest  him  tugged  at  his  sleeve  and  shook 
hands  with  him.  He  remembered  this  after 
ward  as  one  of  the  rewards  of  the  moment. 
He  turned  the  documents  before  him  over  and 
scribbled  words  upon  a  piece  of  paper  and  read 
a  passage  in  an  open  law-book.  He  did  this 
quite  mechanically,  and  was  conscious  of  noth 
ing  until  the  foreman  pronounced  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar  guilty  of  murder  in  the  second  degree. 

83 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

Judge  Truax  leaned  across  his  desk  and  said, 
simply,  that  it  lay  in  his  power  to  sentence  the 
prisoner  to  not  less  than  two  years*  confine 
ment  in  the  State  penitentiary  or  for  the  re 
mainder  of  his  life. 

"Before  I  deliver  sentence  on  you,  Abner 
Barrow,'*  he  said,  with  an  old  man's  kind  sever 
ity,  "is  there  anything  you  have  to  say  on  your 
own  behalf?" 

The  District  Attorney  turned  his  face,  as  did 
all  the  others,  but  he  did  not  see  the  prisoner. 
He  still  saw  himself  holding  the  court-room 
with  a  spell,  and  heard  his  own  periods  ringing 
against  the  whitewashed  ceiling.  The  others 
saw  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  man  leaning  heav 
ily  forward  over  the  bar  of  the  prisoner's  box. 
His  face  was  white  with  the  prison  tan,  markedly 
so  in  contrast  with  those  sunburnt  by  the  wind 
and  sun  turned  toward  him,  and  pinched  and. 
hollow-eyed  and  worn.  When  he  spoke,  his 
voice  had  the  huskiness  which  comes  from  non- 
use,  and  cracked  and  broke  like  a  child's. 

"I  don't  know,  Judge,"  he  said,  hesitatingly, 
and  staring  stupidly  at  the  mass  of  faces  in  the 
well  beneath  him,  "that  I  have  anything  to 
say — in  my  own  behalf.  I  don't  know  as  it 
would  be  any  use.  I  guess  what  the  gentleman 
said  about  me  is  all  there  is  to  say.  He  put  it 
about  right.  I've  had  my  fun,  and  I've  got  to 

84 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

pay  for  it — that  is,  I  thought  it  was  fun  at  the 
time.  I  am  not  going  to  cry  any  baby  act  and 
beg  off,  or  anything,  if  that's  what  you  mean. 
But  there  is  something  I'd  like  to  say  if  I 
thought  you  would  believe  me."  He  frowned 
down  at  the  green  table  as  though  the  words  he 
wanted  would  not  come,  and  his  eyes  wandered 
from  one  face  to  another,  until  they  rested  upon 
the  bowed  head  of  the  only  woman  in  the  room. 
They  remained  there  for  some  short  time,  and 
then  Barrow  drew  in  his  breath  more  quickly, 
and  turned  with  something  like  a  show  of 
confidence  to  the  jury. 

"All  that  man  said  of  me  is  true,"  he  said. 
He  gave  a  toss  of  his  hands  as  a  man  throws 
away  the  reins.  "I  admit  all  he  says.  I  am 
a  back  number;  I  am  out  of  date;  I  was  a 
loafer  and  a  blackguard.  I  never  shot  any  man 
in  the  back,  nor  I  never  assassinated  no  one; 
but  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  I'm  not  in 
a  place  where  I  can  expect  people  to  pick  out 
their  words;  but,  as  he  says,  I  am  a  bad  lot. 
He  says  I  have  enjoyed  a  reputation  as  a  des 
perado.  I  am  not  bragging  of  that;  I  just  ask 
you  to  remember  that  he  said  it.  Remember 
it  of  me.  I  was  not  the  sort  to  back  down  to 
man  or  beast,  and  I'm  not  now.  I  am  not 
backing  down,  now;  I'm  taking  my  punish 
ment.  Whatever  you  please  to  make  it,  I'll 

85 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

take  it;  and  that,"  he  went  on,  more  slowly, 
"makes  it  harder  for  me  to  ask  what  I  want 
to  ask,  and  make  you  all  believe  I  am  not  ask 
ing  it  for  myself." 

He  stopped,  and  the  silence  in  the  room 
seemed  to  give  him  some  faint  encouragement 
of  sympathy,  though  it  was  rather  the  silence 
of  curiosity. 

Colonel  Stogart  gave  a  stern  look  upward, 
and  asked  the  prisoner's  wife,  in  a  whisper,  if 
she  knew  what  her  husband  meant  to  say,  but 
she  shook  her  head.  She  did  not  know.  The 
District  Attorney  smiled  indulgently  at  the 
prisoner  and  at  the  men  about  him,  but  they 
were  watching  the  prisoner. 

"That  man  there,"  said  Barrow,  pointing 
with  one  gaunt  hand  at  the  boy  attorney,  "told 
you  I  had  no  part  or  parcel  in  this  city  or  in 
this  world;  that  I  belonged  to  the  past;  that 
I  had  ought  to  be  dead.  Now  that's  not  so. 
I  have  just  one  thing  that  belongs  to  this  city 
and  this  world — and  to  me;  one  thing  that  I 
couldn't  take  to  jail  with  me,  and  that  I'll  have 
to  leave  behind  me  when  I  go  back  to  it.  I 
mean  my  wife." 

The  prisoner  stopped,  and  looked  so  steadily 
at  one  place  below  him  that  those  in  the  back 
of  the  court  guessed  for  the  first  time  that  Mrs. 
Barrow  was  in  the  room,  and  craned  forward 

86 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

to  look  at  her,  and  there  was  a  moment  of  con 
fusion  and  a  murmur  of  "Get  back  there!" 
"Sit  still!"  The  prisoner  turned  to  Judge 
Truax  again  and  squared  his  broad  shoulders, 
making  the  more  conspicuous  his  narrow  and 
sunken  chest. 

"You,  sir,"  he  said,  quietly,  with  a  change 
from  the  tone  of  braggadocio  with  which  he 
had  begun  to  speak,  "remember  her,  sir,  when 
I  married  her,  twelve  years  ago.  She  was 
Henry  Holman's  daughter,  he  who  owned  the 
San  lago  Ranch  and  the  triangle  brand.  I 
took  her  from  the  home  she  had  with  her  father 
against  that  gentleman's  wishes,  sir,  to  live 
with  me  over  my  dance-hall  at  the  Silver  Star. 
You  may  remember  her  as  she  was  then.  She 
gave  up  everything  a  woman  ought  to  have  to 
come  to  me.  She  thought  she  was  going  to 
be  happy  with  me;  that's  why  she  come,  I 
guess.  Maybe  she  was  happy  for  about  two 
weeks.  After  that  first  two  weeks  her  life, 
sir,  was  a  hell,  and  I  made  it  a  hell.  I  was 
drunk  most  of  the  time,  or  sleeping  it  off,  and 
ugly-tempered  when  I  was  sober.  There  was 
shooting  and  carrying  on  all  day  and  night 
down-stairs,  and  she  didn't  dare  to  leave  her 
room.  Besides  that,  she  cared  for  me,  and  she 
was  afraid  every  minute  I  was  going  to  get 
killed.  That's  the  way  she  lived  for  two  years. 

87 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

Respectable  women  wouldn't  speak  to  her  be 
cause  she  was  my  wife;  even  them  that  were 
friends  of  hers  when  she  lived  on  the  ranch 
wouldn't  speak  to  her  on  the  street — and  she 
had  no  children.  That  was  her  life;  she  lived 
alone  over  the  dance-hall;  and  sometimes  when 
I  was  drunk — I  beat  her." 

The  man's  white  face  reddened  slowly  as  he 
said  this;  and  he  stopped,  and  then  continued 
more  quickly,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  those 
of  the  Judge: 

"At  the  end  of  two  years  I  killed  Welsh,  and 
they  sent  me  to  the  penitentiary  for  ten  years, 
and  she  was  free.  She  could  have  gone  back  to 
her  folks  and  got  a  divorce  if  she'd  wanted  to, 
and  never  seen  me  again.  It  was  an  escape 
most  women'd  gone  down  on  their  knees  and 
thanked  their  Maker  for,  and  blessed  the  day 
they'd  been  freed  from  a  blackguardly  drunken 
brute. 

"But  what  did  this  woman  do — my  wife, 
the  woman  I  misused  and  beat  and  dragged 
down  in  the  mud  with  me?  She  was  too  mighty 
proud  to  go  back  to  her  people  or  to  the  friends 
who  shook  her  when  she  was  in  trouble;  and 
she  sold  out  the  place,  and  bought  a  ranch  with 
the  money,  and  worked  it  by  herself,  worked  it 
day  and  night,  until  in  ten  years  she  had  made 
herself  an  old  woman,  as  you  see  she  is  to-day. 

88 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

"And  for  what?  To  get  me  free  again;  to 
bring  me  things  to  eat  in  jail,  and  picture  papers 
and  tobacco — when  she  was  living  on  bacon 
and  potatoes,  and  drinking  alkali  water — work 
ing  to  pay  for  a  lawyer  to  fight  for  me — to  pay 
for  the  best  lawyer!  She  worked  in  the  fields 
with  her  own  hands,  planting  and  ploughing, 
working  as  I  never  worked  for  myself  in  my 
whole  lazy,  rotten  life.  That's  what  that 
woman  there  did  for  me." 

The  man  stopped  suddenly,  and  turned  with 
a  puzzled  look  toward  where  his  wife  sat,  for 
she  had  dropped  her  head  on  the  table  in  front 
of  her,  and  he  had  heard  her  sobbing. 

"And  what  I  want  to  ask  of  you,  sir,  is  to 
let  me  have  two  years  out  of  jail  to  show  her 
how  I  feel  about  it.  I  ask  you  not  to  send  me 
back  for  life,  sir.  Give  me  just  two  years — 
two  years  of  my  life  while  I  have  some  strength 
left  to  work  for  her  as  she  worked  for  me.  I 
only  want  to  show  her  how  I  care  for  her  now. 
I  had  the  chance,  and  I  wouldn't  take  it;  and 
now,  sir,  I  want  to  show  her  that  I  know  and 
understand — now,  when  it's  too  late.  It's  all 
I've  thought  of  when  I  was  in  jail,  to  be  able 
to  see  her  sitting  in  her  own  kitchen  with  her 
hands  folded,  and  me  working  and  sweating 
in  the  fields  for  her — working  till  every  bone 
ached,  trying  to  make  it  up  to  her. 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

"And  I  can't!'*  the  man  cried,  suddenly, 
losing  the  control  he  had  forced  upon  himself, 
and  tossing  his  hands  up  above  his  head,  and 
with  his  eyes  fixed  hopelessly  on  the  bowed 
head  below  him.  "  I  can't !  It's  too  late.  It's 
too  late!" 

He  turned  and  faced  the  crowd  and  the 
District  Attorney  defiantly. 

"  I'm  not  crying  for  the  men  I  killed.  They're 
dead.  I  can't  bring  them  back.  But  she's  not 
dead,  and  I  treated  her  worse  than  I  treated 
them.  She  never  harmed  me,  nor  got  in  my 
way,  nor  angered  me.  And  now,  when  I  want 
to  do  what  I  can  for  her  in  the  little  time  that's 
left,  he  tells  you  I'm  a  'relic  of  the  past,'  that 
civilization's  too  good  for  me,  that  you  must 
bury  me  until  it's  time  to  bury  me  for  good. 
Just  when  I've  got  something  I  must  live  for, 
something  I've  got  to  do.  Don't  you  believe 
me?  Don't  you  understand?" 

He  turned  again  toward  the  Judge,  and  beat 
the  rail  before  him  impotently  with  his  wasted 
hand.  "Don't  send  me  back  for  life !"  he  cried. 
"Give  me  a  few  years  to  work  for  her — two 
years,  one  year — to  show  her  what  I  feel  here, 
what  I  never  felt  for  her  before.  Look  at  her, 
gentlemen.  Look  how  worn  she  is  and  poorly, 
and  look  at  her  hands,  and  you  men  must  feel 
how  I  feel.  I  don 't  ask  you  for  myself.  I  don't 

90 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

want  to  go  free  on  my  own  account.  I  am  ask 
ing  it  for  that  woman — yes,  and  for  myself,  too. 
I  am  playing  to  'get  back/  gentlemen.  I've  lost 
what  I  had,  and  I  want  to  get  back;  and," 
he  cried,  querulously,  "the  game  keeps  going 
against  me.  It's  only  a  few  years'  freedom  I 
want.  Send  me  back  for  thirty  years,  but  not 
for  life.  My  God !  Judge,  don't  bury  me  alive, 
as  that  man  asked  you  to.  I'm  not  civilized, 
maybe;  ways  have  changed.  You  are  not  the 
man  I  knew;  you  are  all  strangers  to  me.  But 
I  could  learn.  I  wouldn't  bother  you  in  the  old 
way.  I  only  want  to  live  with  her.  I  won't 
harm  the  rest  of  you.  Give  me  this  last  chance. 
Let  me  prove  that  what  I'm  saying  is  true." 

The  man  stopped  and  stood,  opening  and 
shutting  his  hands  upon  the  rail,  and  searching 
with  desperate  eagerness  from  face  to  face,  as 
one  who  has  staked  all  he  has  watches  the  wheel 
spinning  his  fortune  away.  The  gentlemen  of 
the  jury  sat  quite  motionless,  looking  straight 
ahead  at  the  blinding  sun,  which  came  through 
the  high,  uncurtained  windows  opposite.  Out 
side,  the  wind  banged  the  shutters  against  the 
wall,  and  whistled  up  the  street  and  round  the 
tin  corners  of  the  building,  but  inside  the  room 
was  very  silent.  The  Mexicans  at  the  door, 
who  could  not  understand,  looked  curiously  at 
the  faces  of  the  men  around  them,  and  made 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

sure  that  they  had  missed  something  of  much 
importance.  For  a  moment  no  one  moved, 
until  there  was  a  sudden  stir  around  the  Dis 
trict  Attorney's  table,  and  the  men  stepped 
aside  and  let  the  woman  pass  them  and  throw 
herself  against  the  prisoner's  box.  The  pris 
oner  bent  his  tall  gaunt  figure  over  the  rail, 
and  as  the  woman  pressed  his  one  hand  against 
her  face,  touched  her  shoulders  with  the  other 
awkwardly. 

"There,  now,"  he  whispered,  soothingly, 
"don't  you  take  on  so.  Now  you  know  how  I 
feel,  it's  all  right;  don't  take  on." 

Judge  Truax  looked  at  the  paper  on  his  desk 
for  some  seconds,  and  raised  his  head,  coughing 
as  he  did  so.  "  It  lies — "  Judge  Truax  began, 
and  then  stopped,  and  began  again,  in  a  more 
certain  tone:  "It  lies  at  the  discretion  of  this 
Court  to  sentence  the  prisoner  to  a  term  of  im 
prisonment  for  two  years,  or  for  an  indefinite 
period,  or  for  life.  Owing  to —  On  account  of 
certain  circumstances  which  were — have  arisen 
— this  sentence  is  suspended.  This  court  stands 
adjourned." 

As  he  finished  he  sprang  out  of  his  chair  im 
pulsively,  and  with  a  quick  authoritative  nod 
to  the  young  District  Attorney,  came  quickly 
down  the  steps  of  the  platform.  Young  Harvey 
met  him  at  the  foot  with  wide-open  eyes. 

92 


THE  BOY  ORATOR  OF  ZEPATA  CITY 

The  older  man  hesitated,  and  placed  his 
hand  upon  the  District  Attorney's  shoulder. 
"Harry,"  he  said.  His  voice  was  shaken,  and 
his  hand  trembled  on  the  arm  of  his  protege,  for 
he  was  an  old  man  and  easily  moved.  "Harry, 
my  boy,"  he  said,  "do  you  think  you  could  go 
to  Austin  and  repeat  the  speech  that  man  made 
to  the  Governor?" 

The  boy  orator  laughed,  and  took  one  of  the 
older  man's  hands  in  one  of  his  and  pressed  it 

quickly.  "I'd  like  d d  well  to  try,"  he 

said. 


93 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

YOUNG  Latimer  stood  on  one  of  the  lower 
steps  of  the  hall  stairs,  leaning  with  one  hand 
on  the  broad  railing  and  smiling  down  at  her. 
She  had  followed  him  from  the  drawing-room 
and  had  stopped  at  the  entrance,  drawing  the 
curtains  behind  her,  and  making,  unconsciously, 
a  dark  background  for  her  head  and  figure. 
He  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look  more 
beautiful,  nor  that  cold,  fine  air  of  thorough 
breeding  about  her  which  was  her  greatest 
beauty  to  him,  more  strongly  in  evidence. 

"Well,  sir,"  she  said,  "why  don't  you  go?" 

He  shifted  his  position  slightly  and  leaned 
more  comfortably  upon  the  railing,  as  though 
he  intended  to  discuss  it  with  her  at  some 
length. 

"How  can  I  go,"  he  said,  argumentatively, 
"with  you  standing  there — looking  like  that?" 

"I  really  believe,"  the  girl  said,  slowly,  "that 
he  is  afraid;  yes,  he  is  afraid.  And  you  always 
said,"  she  added,  turning  to  him,  "you  were  so 
brave." 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  I  never  said  that,"  exclaimed 
the  young  man,  calmly.  ''I  may  be  brave,  in 

94 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

fact,  I  am  quite  brave,  but  I  never  said  I  was. 
Some  one  must  have  told  you." 

"Yes,  he  is  afraid,"  she  said,  nodding  her 
head  to  the  tall  clock  across  the  hall,  "he  is 
temporizing  and  trying  to  save  time.  And 
afraid  of  a  man,  too,  and  such  a  good  man  who 
would  not  hurt  any  one." 

"You  know  a  bishop  is  always  a  very  diffi 
cult  sort  of  a  person,"  he  said,  "and  when 
he  happens  to  be  your  father,  the  combination 
is  just  a  bit  awful.  Isn't  it  now?  And  es 
pecially  when  one  means  to  ask  him  for  his 
daughter.  You  know  it  isn't  like  asking  him 
to  let  one  smoke  in  his  study." 

"If  I  loved  a  girl,"  she  said,  shaking  her 
head  and  smiling  up  at  him,  "I  wouldn't  be 
afraid  of  the  whole  world;  that's  what  they 
say  in  books,  isn't  it?  I  would  be  so  bold  and 
happy." 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  bold  enough,"  said  the  young 
man,  easily;  "if  I  had  not  been,  I  never  would 
have  asked  you  to  marry  me;  and  I'm  happy 
enough — that's  because  I  did  ask  you.  But 
what  if  he  says  no,"  continued  the  youth; 
"what  if  he  says  he  has  greater  ambitions  for 
you,  just  as  they  say  in  books,  too  ?  What  will 
you  do?  Will  you  run  away  with  me?  I  can 
borrow  a  coach  just  as  they  used  to  do,  and  we 
can  drive  off  through  the  Park  and  be  married, 

95 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

and  come  back  and  ask  his  blessing  on  our  knees 
— unless  he  should  overtake  us  on  the  elevated." 

"That,"  said  the  girl,  decidedly,  "is  flippant, 
and  I'm  going  to  leave  you.  I  never  thought 
to  marry  a  man  who  would  be  frightened  at 
the  very  first.  I  am  greatly  disappointed." 

She  stepped  back  into  the  drawing-room  and 
pulled  the  curtains  to  behind  her,  and  then 
opened  them  again  and  whispered,  "Please 
don't  be  long,"  and  disappeared.  He  waited, 
smiling,  to  see  if  she  would  make  another  ap 
pearance,  but  she  did  not,  and  he  heard  her 
touch  the  keys  of  the  piano  at  the  other  end  of 
the  drawing-room.  And  so,  still  smiling  and 
with  her  last  words  sounding  in  his  ears,  he 
walked  slowly  up  the  stairs  and  knocked  at  the 
door  of  the  bishop's  study.  The  bishop's  room 
was  not  ecclesiastic  in  its  character.  It  looked 
much  like  the  room  of  any  man  of  any  calling 
who  cared  for  his  books  and  to  have  pictures 
about  him,  and  copies  of  the  beautiful  things 
he  had  seen  on  his  travels.  There  were  pictures 
of  the  Virgin  and  the  Child,  but  they  were  those 
that  are  seen  in  almost  any  house,  and  there 
were  etchings  and  plaster  casts,  and  there  were 
hundreds  of  books,  and  dark  red  curtains,  and 
an  open  fire  that  lit  up  the  pots  of  brass  with 
ferns  in  them,  and  the  blue  and  white  plaques 
on  the  top  of  the  bookcase.  The  bishop  sat 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

before  his  writing-table,  with  one  hand  shading 
his  eyes  from  the  light  of  a  red-covered  lamp, 
and  looked  up  and  smiled  pleasantly  and  nodded 
as  the  young  man  entered.  He  had  a  very 
strong  face,  with  white  hair  hanging  at  the  side, 
but  was  still  a  young  man  for  one  in  such  a  high 
office.  He  was  a  man  interested  in  many 
things,  who  could  talk  to  men  of  any  profession 
or  to  the  mere  man  of  pleasure,  and  could  in 
terest  them  in  what  he  said,  and  force  their 
respect  and  liking.  And  he  was  very  good, 
and  had,  they  said,  seen  much  trouble. 

"I  am  afraid  I  interrupted  you,"  said  the 
young  man,  tentatively. 

"No,  I  have  interrupted  myself,"  replied  the 
bishop.  "I  don't  seem  to  make  this  clear  to 
myself,"  he  said,  touching  the  paper  in  front  of 
him,  "and  so  I  very  much  doubt  if  I  am  going 
to  make  it  clear  to  any  one  else.  However," 
he  added,  smiling,  as  he  pushed  the  manuscript 
to  one  side,  "we  are  not  going  to  talk  about 
that  now.  What  have  you  to  tell  me  that  is 
new?" 

The  younger  man  glanced  up  quickly  at  this, 
but  the  bishop's  face  showed  that  his  words 
had  had  no  ulterior  meaning,  and  that  he  sus 
pected  nothing  more  serious  to  come  than  the 
gossip  of  the  clubs  or  a  report  of  the  local  po 
litical  fight  in  which  he  was  keenly  interested, 

97 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

or  on  their  mission  on  the  East  Side.  But  it 
seemed  an  opportunity  to  Latimer. 

"I  have  something  new  to  tell  you,"  he  said, 
gravely,  and  with  his  eyes  turned  toward  the 
open  fire,  "and  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it  ex 
actly.  I  mean  I  don't  just  know  how  it  is 
generally  done  or  how  to  tell  it  best."  He 
hesitated  and  leaned  forward,  with  his  hands 
locked  in  front  of  him,  and  his  elbows  resting 
on  his  knees.  He  was  not  in  the  least  fright 
ened.  The  bishop  had  listened  to  many  strange 
stories,  to  many  confessions,  in  this  same  study, 
and  had  learned  to  take  them  as  a  matter  of 
course;  but  to-night  something  in  the  manner 
of  the  young  man  before  him  made  him  stir 
uneasily,  and  he  waited  for  him  to  disclose  the 
object  of  his  visit  with  some  impatience. 

"I  will  suppose,  sir,"  said  young  Latimer, 
finally,  "that  you  know  me  rather  well — I  mean 
you  know  who  my  people  are,  and  what  I  am 
doing  here  in  New  York,  and  who  my  friends 
are,  and  what  my  work  amounts  to.  You  have 
let  me  see  a  great  deal  of  you,  and  I  have  appre 
ciated  your  doing  so  very  much;  to  so  young  a 
man  as  myself  it  has  been  a  great  compliment, 
and  it  has  been  of  great  benefit  to  me.  I  know 
that  better  than  any  one  else.  I  say  this  be 
cause  unless  you  had  shown  me  this  confidence 
it  would  have  been  almost  impossible  for  me 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

to  say  to  you  what  I  am  going  to  say  now.  But 
you  have  allowed  me  to  come  here  frequently, 
and  to  see  you  and  talk  with  you  here  in  your 
study,  and  to  see  even  more  of  your  daughter. 
Of  course,  sir,  you  did  not  suppose  that  I  came 
here  only  to  see  you.  I  came  here  because  I 
found  that,  if  I  did  not  see  Miss  Ellen  for  a  day, 
that  that  day  was  wasted,  and  that  I  spent  it 
uneasily  and  discontentedly,  and  the  necessity 
of  seeing  her  even  more  frequently  has  grown 
so  great  that  I  cannot  come  here  as  often  as  I 
seem  to  want  to  come  unless  I  am  engaged  to 
her,  unless  I  come  as  her  husband  that  is  to  be." 
The  young  man  had  been  speaking  very  slowly 
and  picking  his  words,  but  now  he  raised  his 
head  and  ran  on  quickly. 

"I  have  spoken  to  her  and  told  her  how  I  love 
her,  and  she  has  told  me  that  she  loves  me,  and 
that  if  you  will  not  oppose  us,  will  marry  me. 
That  is  the  news  I  have  to  tell  you,  sir.  I 
don't  know  but  that  I  might  have  told  it  differ 
ently,  but  that  is  it.  I  need  not  urge  on  you 
my  position  and  all  that,  because  I  do  not  think 
that  weighs  with  you;  but  I  do  tell  you  that  I 
love  Ellen  so  dearly  that,  though  I  am  not 
worthy  of  her,  of  course,  I  have  no  other  pleasure 
than  to  give  her  pleasure  and  to  try  to  make  her 
happy.  I  have  the  power  to  do  it;  but  what  is 
much  more,  I  have  the  wish  to  do  it;  it  is  all  I 

99 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

think  of  now,  and  all  that  I  can  ever  think 
of.  What  she  thinks  of  me  you  must  ask  her; 
but  what  she  is  to  me  neither  she  can  tell  you 
nor  do  I  believe  that  I  myself  could  make 
you  understand."  The  young  man's  face  was 
flushed  and  eager,  and  as  he  finished  speaking 
he  raised  his  head  and  watched  the  bishop's 
countenance  anxiously.  But  the  older  man's 
face  was  hidden  by  his  hand  as  he  leaned  with 
his  elbow  on  his  writing-table.  His  other  hand 
was  playing  with  a  pen,  and  when  he  began  to 
speak,  which  he  did  after  a  long  pause,  he  still 
turned  it  between  his  fingers  and  looked  down 
at  it. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  as  softly  as  though  he 
were  speaking  to  himself,  "that  I  should  have 
known  this;  I  suppose  that  I  should  have  been 
better  prepared  to  hear  it.  But  it  is  one  of 
those  things  which  men  put  off — I  mean  those 
men  who  have  children,  put  off — as  they  do 
making  their  wills,  as  something  that  is  in  the 
future  and  that  may  be  shirked  until  it  comes. 
We  seem  to  think  that  our  daughters  will  live 
with  us  always,  just  as  we  expect  to  live  on 
ourselves  until  death  comes  one  day  and  startles 
us  and  finds  us  unprepared."  He  took  down 
his  hand  and  smiled  gravely  at  the  younger  man 
with  an  evident  effort,  and  said,  "I  did  not 
mean  to  speak  so  gloomily,  but  you  see  my 

100 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

point  of  view  must  be  different  from  yours. 
And  she  says  she  loves  you,  does  she?"  he 
added,  gently. 

Young  Latimer  bowed  his  head  and  murmured 
something  inarticulately  in  reply,  and  then  held 
his  head  erect  again  and  waited,  still  watching 
the  bishop's  face. 

"I  think  she  might  have  told  me,"  said  the 
older  man;  "but  then  I  suppose  this  is  the 
better  way.  I  am  young  enough  to  understand 
that  the  old  order  changes,  that  the  customs  of 
my  father's  time  differ  from  those  of  to-day. 
And  there  is  no  alternative,  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
shaking  his  head.  "I  am  stopped  and  told  to 
deliver,  and  have  no  choice.  I  will  get  used  to 
it  in  time,"  he  went  on,  "but  it  seems  very  hard 
now.  Fathers  are  selfish,  I  imagine,  but  she 
is  all  I  have." 

Young  Latimer  looked  gravely  into  the  fire 
and  wondered  how  long  it  would  last.  He 
could  just  hear  the  piano  from  below,  and  he 
was  anxious  to  return  to  her.  And  at  the  same 
time  he  was  drawn  toward  the  older  man  before 
him,  and  felt  rather  guilty,  as  though  he  really 
were  robbing  him.  But  at  the  bishop's  next 
words  he  gave  up  any  thought  of  a  speedy 
release,  and  settled  himself  in  his  chair. 

"We  are  still  to  have  a  long  talk,"  said  the 
bishop.  "There  are  many  things  I  must  know, 

101 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

and  of  which  I  am  sure  you  will  inform  me 
freely.  I  believe  there  are  some  who  consider 
me  hard,  and  even  narrow  on  different  points, 
but  I  do  not  think  you  will  find  me  so,  at  least 
let  us  hope  not.  I  must  confess  that  for  a 
moment  I  almost  hoped  that  you  might  not  be 
able  to  answer  the  questions  I  must  ask  you, 
but  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  I  am  only  too 
sure  you  will  not  be  found  wanting,  and  that 
the  conclusion  of  our  talk  will  satisfy  us  both. 
Yes,  I  am  confident  of  that." 

His  manner  changed,  nevertheless,  and  Lati- 
mer  saw  that  he  was  now  facing  a  judge  and  not 
a  plaintiff  who  had  been  robbed,  and  that  he 
was  in  turn  the  defendant.  And  still  he  was 
in  no  way  frightened. 

"I  like  you,"  the  bishop  said,  "I  like  you 
very  much.  As  you  say  yourself,  I  have  seen  a 
great  deal  of  you,  because  I  have  enjoyed  your 
society,  and  your  views  and  talk  were  good  and 
young  and  fresh,  and  did  me  good.  You  have 
served  to  keep  me  in  touch  with  the  outside 
world,  a  world  of  which  I  used  to  know  at  one 
time  a  great  deal.  I  know  your  people  and  I 
know  you,  I  think,  and  many  people  have  spoken 
to  me  of  you.  I  see  why  now.  They,  no 
doubt,  understood  what  was  coming  better  than 
myself,  and  were  meaning  to  reassure  me  con 
cerning  you.  And  they  said  nothing  but  what 

1 02 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

was  good  of  you.  But  there  are  certain  things 
of  which  no  one  can  know  but  yourself,  and 
concerning  which  no  other  person,  save  myself, 
has  a  right  to  question  you.  You  have  prom 
ised  very  fairly  for  my  daughter's  future;  you 
have  suggested  more  than  you  have  said,  but 
I  understood.  You  can  give  her  many  plea 
sures  which  I  have  not  been  able  to  afford;  she 
can  get  from  you  the  means  of  seeing  more 
of  this  world  in  which  she  lives,  of  meeting 
more  people,  and  of  indulging  in  her  charities, 
or  in  her  extravagances,  for  that  matter,  as 
she  wishes.  I  have  no  fear  of  her  bodily  com 
fort;  her  life,  as  far  as  that  is  concerned,  will 
be  easier  and  broader,  and  with  more  power  for 
good.  Her  future,  as  I  say,  as  you  say  also, 
is  assured;  but  I  want  to  ask  you  this,"  the 
bishop  leaned  forward  and  watched  the  young 
man  anxiously,  "you  can  protect  her  in  the 
future,  but  can  you  assure  me  that  you  can 
protect  her  from  the  past?" 

Young  Latimer  raised  his  eyes  calmly  and 
said,  "I  don't  think  I  quite  understand." 

"I  have  perfect  confidence,  I  say,"  returned 
the  bishop,  "in  you  as  far  as  your  treatment  of 
Ellen  is  concerned  in  the  future.  You  love 
her  and  you  would  do  everything  to  make  the 
life  of  the  woman  you  love  a  happy  one;  but 
this  is  it,  Can  you  assure  me  that  there  is 

103 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

nothing  in  the  past  that  may  reach  forward 
later  and  touch  my  daughter  through  you — 
no  ugly  story,  no  oats  that  have  been  sowed, 
and  no  boomerang  that  you  have  thrown  wan 
tonly  and  that  has  not  returned — but  which 
may  return?" 

"I  think  I  understand  you  now,  sir,"  said 
the  young  man,  quietly.  "I  have  lived,"  he 
began,  "as  other  men  of  my  sort  have  lived. 
You  know  what  that  is,  for  you  must  have  seen 
it  about  you  at  college,  and  after  that  before 
you  entered  the  Church.  I  judge  so  from 
your  friends,  who  were  your  friends  then,  I 
understand.  You  know  how  they  lived.  I 
never  went  in  for  dissipation,  if  you  mean 
that,  because  it  never  attracted  me.  I  am 
afraid  I  kept  out  of  it  not  so  much  out  of  respect 
for  others  as  for  respect  for  myself.  I  found 
my  self-respect  was  a  very  good  thing  to  keep, 
and  I  rather  preferred  keeping  it  and  losing 
several  pleasures  that  other  men  managed  to 
enjoy,  apparently  with  free  consciences.  I  con 
fess  I  used  to  rather  envy  them.  It  is  no 
particular  virtue  on  my  part;  the  thing  struck 
me  as  rather  more  vulgar  than  wicked,  and  so 
I  have  had  no  wild  oats  to  speak  of;  and  no 
woman,  if  that  is  what  you  mean,  can  write 
an  anonymous  letter,  and  no  man  can  tell  you 
a  story  about  me  that  he  could  not  tell  in  my 
presence." 

104 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

There  was  something  in  the  way  the  young 
man  spoke  which  would  have  amply  satisfied 
the  outsider,  had  he  been  present;  but  the 
bishop's  eyes  were  still  unrelaxed  and  anxious. 
He  made  an  impatient  motion  with  his  hand. 

"I  know  you  too  well,  I  hope,"  he  said,  "to 
think  of  doubting  your  attitude  in  that  par 
ticular.  I  know  you  are  a  gentleman,  that  is 
enough  for  that;  but  there  is  something  beyond 
these  more  common  evils.  You  see,  I  am 
terribly  in  earnest  over  this — you  may  think 
unjustly  so,  considering  how  well  I  know  you, 
but  this  child  is  my  only  child.  If  her  mother 
had  lived,  my  responsibility  would  have  been 
less  great;  but,  as  it  is,  God  has  left  her  here 
alone  to  me  in  my  hands.  I  do  not  think  He 
intended  my  duty  should  end  when  I  had  fed 
and  clothed  her,  and  taught  her  to  read  and 
write.  I  do  not  think  He  meant  that  I  should 
only  act  as  her  guardian  until  the  first  man 
she  fancied  fancied  her.  I  must  look  to  her 
happiness  not  only  now  when  she  is  with  me, 
but  I  must  assure  myself  of  it  when  she  leaves 
my  roof.  These  common  sins  of  youth  I  acquit 
you  of.  Such  things  are  beneath  you,  I  be 
lieve,  and  I  did  not  even  consider  them.  But 
there  are  other  toils  in  which  men  become 
involved,  other  evils  or  misfortunes  which 
exist,  and  which  threaten  all  men  who  are 
young  and  free  and  attractive  in  many  ways  to 

105 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

women,  as  well  as  men.  You  have  lived  the 
life  of  the  young  man  of  this  day.  You  have 
reached  a  place  in  your  profession  when  you 
can  afford  to  rest  and  marry  and  assume  the 
responsibilities  of  marriage.  You  look  forward 
to  a  life  of  content  and  peace  and  honorable 
ambition — a  life,  with  your  wife  at  your  side, 
which  is  to  last  forty  or  fifty  years.  You  con 
sider  where  you  will  be  twenty  years  from  now, 
at  what  point  of  your  career  you  may  become 
a  judge  or  give  up  practise;  your  perspective 
is  unlimited;  you  even  think  of  the  college  to 
which  you  may  send  your  son.  It  is  a  long, 
quiet  future  that  you  are  looking  forward  to, 
and  you  choose  my  daughter  as  the  companion 
for  that  future,  as  the  one  woman  with  whom 
you  could  live  content  for  that  length  of  time. 
And  it  is  in  that  spirit  that  you  come  to  me  to 
night  and  that  you  ask  me  for  my  daughter. 
Now  I  am  going  to  ask  you  one  question,  and 
as  you  answer  that  I  will  tell  you  whether  or 
not  you  can  have  Ellen  for  your  wife.  You 
look  forward,  as  I  say,  to  many  years  of  life, 
and  you  have  chosen  her  as  best  suited  to  live 
that  period  with  you;  but  I  ask  you  this,  and 
I  demand  that  you  answer  me  truthfully, 
and  that  you  remember  that  you  are  speaking 
to  her  father.  Imagine  that  I  had  the  power 
to  tell  you,  or  rather  that  some  superhuman 

1 06 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

agent  could  convince  you,  that  you  had  but  a 
month  to  live,  and  that  for  what  you  did  in  that 
month  you  would  not  be  held  responsible  either 
by  any  moral  law  or  any  law  made  by  man, 
and  that  your  life  hereafter  would  not  be  in 
fluenced  by  your  conduct  in  that  month,  would 
you  spend  it,  I  ask  you — and  on  your  answer 
depends  mine — would  you  spend  those  thirty 
days,  with  death  at  the  end,  with  my  daughter, 
or  with  some  other  woman  of  whom  I  know 
nothing?" 

Latimer  sat  for  some  time  silent,  until  indeed, 
his  silence  assumed  such  a  significance  that  he 
raised  his  head  impatiently  and  said  with  a  mo 
tion  of  the  hand,  "  I  mean  to  answer  you  in  a 
minute;  I  want  to  be  sure  that  I  understand." 

The  bishop  bowed  his  head  in  assent,  and  for 
a  still  longer  period  the  men  sat  motionless. 
The  clock  in  the  corner  seemed  to  tick  more 
loudly,  and  the  dead  coals  dropping  in  the 
grate  had  a  sharp,  aggressive  sound.  The 
notes  of  the  piano  that  had  risen  from  the  room 
below  had  ceased. 

"If  I  understand  you,"  said  Latimer,  finally, 
and  his  voice  and  his  face  as  he  raised  it  were 
hard  and  aggressive,  "you  are  stating  a  purely 
hypothetical  case.  You  wish  to  try  me  by  con 
ditions  which  do  not  exist,  which  cannot  exist. 
What  justice  is  there,  what  right  is  there,  in 

107 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

asking  me  to  say  how  I  would  act  under  cir 
cumstances  which  are  impossible,  which  lie 
beyond  the  limit  of  human  experience?  You 
cannot  judge  a  man  by  what  he  would  do  if  he 
were  suddenly  robbed  of  all  his  mental  and 
moral  training  and  of  the  habit  of  years.  I  am 
not  admitting,  understand  me,  that  if  the 
conditions  which  you  suggest  did  exist  that  I 
would  do  one  whit  differently  from  what  I  will 
do  if  they  remain  as  they  are.  I  am  merely 
denying  your  right  to  put  such  a  question  to 
me  at  all.  You  might  just  as  well  judge  the 
shipwrecked  sailors  on  a  raft  who  eat  each 
other's  flesh  as  you  would  judge  a  sane,  healthy 
man  who  did  such  a  thing  in  his  own  home. 
Are  you  going  to  condemn  men  who  are  ice- 
locked  at  the  North  Pole,  or  buried  in  the  heart 
of  Africa,  and  who  have  given  up  all  thought 
of  return  and  are  half  mad  and  wholly  without 
hope,  as  you  would  judge  ourselves?  Are  they 
to  be  weighed  and  balanced  as  you  and  I  are, 
sitting  here  within  the  sound  of  the  cabs  out 
side  and  with  a  bake-shop  around  the  corner? 
What  you  propose  could  not  exist,  could  never 
happen.  I  could  never  be  placed  where  I 
should  have  to  make  such  a  choice,  and  you 
have  no  right  to  ask  me  what  I  would  do  or  how 
I  would  act  under  conditions  that  are  super 
human — you  used  the  word  yourself — where  all 

1 08 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

that  I  have  held  to  be  good  and  just  and  true 
would  be  obliterated.  I  would  be  unworthy  of 
myself,  I  would  be  unworthy  of  your  daughter, 
if  I  considered  such  a  state  of  things  for  a  mo 
ment,  or  if  I  placed  my  hopes  of  marrying  her 
on  the  outcome  of  such  a  test,  and  so,  sir,"  said 
the  young  man,  throwing  back  his  head,  "I 
must  refuse  to  answer  you." 

The  bishop  lowered  his  hand  from  before  his 
eyes  and  sank  back  wearily  into  his  chair. 
"You  have  answered  me,"  he  said. 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  that,"  cried  the 
young  man,  springing  to  his  feet.  "You  have 
no  right  to  suppose  anything  or  to  draw  any 
conclusions.  I  have  not  answered  you."  He 
stood  with  his  head  and  shoulders  thrown  back, 
and  with  his  hands  resting  on  his  hips  and  with 
the  fingers  working  nervously  at  his  waist. 

"What  you  have  said,"  replied  the  bishop, 
in  a  voice  that  had  changed  strangely,  and 
which  was  inexpressibly  sad  and  gentle,  "is 
merely  a  curtain  of  words  to  cover  up  your 
true  feeling.  It  would  have  been  so  easy  to 
have  said,  'For  thirty  days  or  for  life  Ellen  is 
the  only  woman  who  has  the  power  to  make 
me  happy/  You  see  that  would  have  answered 
me  and  satisfied  me.  But  you  did  not  say 
that,"  he  added,  quickly,  as  the  young  man 
made  a  movement  as  if  to  speak. 

109 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

"Well,  and  suppose  this  other  woman  did 
exist,  what  then?"  demanded  Latimer.  "The 
conditions  you  suggest  are  impossible;  you 
must,  you  will  surely,  sir,  admit  that." 

"I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  bishop,  sadly; 
"  I  do  not  know.  It  may  happen  that  whatever 
obstacle  there  has  been  which  has  kept  you 
from  her  may  be  removed.  It  may  be  that 
she  has  married,  it  may  be  that  she  has  fallen 
so  low  that  you  cannot  marry  her.  But  if  you 
have  loved  her  once,  you  may  love  her  again; 
whatever  it  was  that  separated  you  in  the  past, 
that  separates  you  now,  that  makes  you  prefer 
my  daughter  to  her,  may  come  to  an  end  when 
you  are  married,  when  it  will  be  too  late,  and 
when  only  trouble  can  come  of  it,  and  Ellen 
would  bear  that  trouble.  Can  I  risk  that?" 

"But  I  tell  you  it  is  impossible,"  cried  the 
young  man.  "The  woman  is  beyond  the  love 
of  any  man,  at  least  such  a  man  as  I  am,  or  try 
to  be." 

"Do  you  mean,"  asked  the  bishop,  gently, 
and  with  an  eager  look  of  hope,  "that  she  is 
dead?" 

Latimer  faced  the  father  for  some  seconds  in 
silence.  Then  he  raised  his  head  slowly. 
"No,"  he  said,  "I  do  not  mean  she  is  dead. 
No,  she  is  not  dead." 

Again  the  bishop  moved  back  wearily  into 
no 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

his  chair.  "You  mean  then,'*  he  said,  "per 
haps,  that  she  is  a  married  woman?"  Latimer 
pressed  his  lips  together  at  first  as  though  he 
would  not  answer,  and  then  raised  his  eyes 
coldly.  "Perhaps,"  he  said. 

The  older  man  had  held  up  his  hand  as  if  to 
signify  that  what  he  was  about  to  say  should  be 
listened  to  without  interruption,  when  a  sharp 
turning  of  the  lock  of  the  door  caused  both 
father  and  the  suitor  to  start.  Then  they 
turned  and  looked  at  each  other  with  anxious 
inquiry  and  with  much  concern,  for  they  recog 
nized  for  the  first  time  that  their  voices  had 
been  loud.  The  older  man  stepped  quickly 
across  the  floor,  but  before  he  reached  the 
middle  of  the  room  the  door  opened  from  the 
outside,  and  his  daughter  stood  in  the  door-way, 
with  her  head  held  down  and  her  eyes  looking 
at  the  floor. 

"Ellen!"  exclaimed  the  father,  in  a  voice  of 
pain  and  the  deepest  pity. 

The  girl  moved  toward  the  place  from  where 
his  voice  came,  without  raising  her  eyes,  and 
when  she  reached  him  put  her  arms  about  him 
and  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  She  moved 
as  though  she  were  tired,  as  though  she  were 
exhausted  by  some  heavy  work. 

"My  child,"  said  the  bishop,  gently,  "were 
you  listening?"  There  was  no  reproach  in  his 

in 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

voice;  it  was  simply  full  of  pity  and  con 
cern. 

"I  thought,"  whispered  the  girl,  brokenly, 
"that  he  would  be  frightened;  I  wanted  to 
hear  what  he  would  say.  I  thought  I  could 
laugh  at  him  for  it  afterward.  I  did  it  for  a 
joke.  I  thought — "  She  stopped  with  a  little 
gasping  sob  that  she  tried  to  hide,  and  for  a 
moment  held  herself  erect  and  then  sank  back 
again  into  her  father's  arms  with  her  head  upon 
his  breast. 

Latimer  started  forward,  holding  out  his 
arms  to  her.  "Ellen,"  he  said,  "surely,  Ellen, 
you  are  not  against  me.  You  see  how  pre 
posterous  it  is,  how  unjust  it  is  to  me.  You 
cannot  mean " 

The  girl  raised  her  head  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders  slightly  as  though  she  were  cold. 
"Father,"  she  said,  wearily,  "ask  him  to  go 
away.  Why  does  he  stay?  Ask  him  to  go 
away." 

Latimer  stopped  and  took  a  step  back  as 
though  some  one  had  struck  him,  and  then 
stood  silent  with  his  face  flushed  and  his  eyes 
flashing.  It  was  not  in  answer  to  anything 
that  they  said  that  he  spoke,  but  to  their  at 
titude  and  what  it  suggested.  "You  stand 
there,"  he  began,  "you  two  stand  there  as 
though  I  were  something  unclean,  as  though 

112 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

I  had  committed  some  crime.  You  look  at 
me  as  though  I  were  on  trial  for  murder  or 
worse.  Both  of  you  together  against  me. 
What  have  I  done?  What  difference  is  there? 
You  loved  me  a  half-hour  ago,  Ellen;  you  said 
you  did.  I  know  you  loved  me;  and  you, 
sir,"  he  added,  more  quietly,  "treated  me  like 
a  friend.  Has  anything  come  since  then  to 
change  me  or  you?  Be  fair  to  me,  be  sensible. 
What  is  the  use  of  this?  It  is  a  silly,  needless, 
horrible  mistake.  You  know  I  love  you,  Ellen; 
love  you  better  than  all  the  world.  I  don't 
have  to  tell  you  that;  you  know  it,  you  can 
see  and  feel  it.  It  does  not  need  to  be  said; 
words  can't  make  it  any  truer.  You  have  con 
fused  yourselves  and  stultified  yourselves  with 
this  trick,  this  test  by  hypothetical  conditions, 
by  considering  what  is  not  real  or  possible.  It 
is  simple  enough;  it  is  plain  enough.  You 
know  I  love  you,  Ellen,  and  you  only,  and  that 
is  all  there  is  to  it,  and  all  that  there  is  of  any 
consequence  in  the  world  to  me.  The  matter 
stops  there;  that  is  all  there  is  for  you  to  con 
sider.  Answer  me,  Ellen,  speak  to  me.  Tell 
me  that  you  believe  me." 

He  stopped  and  moved  a  step  toward  her, 
but  as  he  did  so,  the  girl,  still  without  looking 
up,  drew  herself  nearer  to  her  father  and  shrank 
more  closely  into  his  arms;  but  the  father's  face 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

was  troubled  and  doubtful,  and  he  regarded  the 
younger  man  with  a  look  of  the  most  anxious 
scrutiny.  Latimer  did  not  regard  this.  Their 
hands  were  raised  against  him  as  far  as  he  could 
understand,  and  he  broke  forth  again  proudly, 
and  with  a  defiant  indignation: 

"What  right  have  you  to  judge  me?"  he 
began;  "what  do  you  know  of  what  I  have 
suffered,  and  endured,  and  overcome?  How 
can  you  know  what  I  have  had  to  give  up  and 
put  away  from  me?  It's  easy  enough  for  you 
to  draw  your  skirts  around  you,  but  what  can 
a  woman  bred  as  you  have  been  bred  know  of 
what  I've  had  to  fight  against  and  keep  under 
and  cut  away?  It  was  an  easy,  beautiful  idyl 
to  you;  your  love  came  to  you  only  when  it 
should  have  come,  and  for  a  man  who  was 
good  and  worthy,  and  distinctly  eligible — I 
don't  mean  that;  forgive  me,  Ellen,  but  you 
drive  me  beside  myself.  But  he  is  good  and 
he  believes  himself  worthy,  and  I  say  that  my 
self  before  you  both.  But  I  am  only  worthy 
and  only  good  because  of  that  other  love  that 
I  put  away  when  it  became  a  crime,  when  it 
became  impossible.  Do  you  know  what  it  cost 
me?  Do  you  know  what  it  meant  to  me,  and 
what  I  went  through,  and  how  I  suffered?  Do 
you  know  who  this  other  woman  is  whom  you 
are  insulting  with  your  doubts  and  guesses  in 

114 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

the  dark?  Can't  you  spare  her?  Am  I  not 
enough?  Perhaps  it  was  easy  for  her,  too; 
perhaps  her  silence  cost  her  nothing;  perhaps 
she  did  not  suffer  and  has  nothing  but  happiness 
and  content  to  look  forward  to  for  the  rest  of 
her  life;  and  I  tell  you  that  it  is  because  we  did 
put  it  away,  and  kill  it,  and  not  give  way  to  it 
that  I  am  whatever  I  am  to-day;  whatever 
good  there  is  in  me  is  due  to  that  temptation 
and  to  the  fact  that  I  beat  it  and  overcame  it 
and  kept  myself  honest  and  clean.  And  when 
I  met  you  and  learned  to  know  you  I  believed 
in  my  heart  that  God  had  sent  you  to  me  that 
I  might  know  what  it  was  to  love  a  woman 
whom  I  could  marry  and  who  could  be  my 
wife;  that  you  were  the  reward  for  my  having 
overcome  temptation  and  the  sign  that  I  had 
done  well.  And  now  you  throw  me  over  and 
put  me  aside  as  though  I  were  something  low 
and  unworthy,  because  of  this  temptation,  be 
cause  of  this  very  thing  that  has  made  me  know 
myself  and  my  own  strength  and  that  has  kept 
me  up  for  you." 

As  the  young  man  had  been  speaking,  the 
bishop's  eyes  had  never  left  his  face,  and  as 
he  finished,  the  face  of  the  priest  grew  clearer 
and  decided,  and  calmly  exultant.  And  as 
Latimer  ceased  he  bent  his  head  above  his 
daughter's,  and  said  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to 

115 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

speak  with  more  than  human  inspiration.  "  My 
child,"  he  said,  "if  God  had  given  me  a  son  I 
should  have  been  proud  if  he  could  have  spoken 
as  this  young  man  has  done." 

But  the  woman  only  said,  "Let  him  go  to 
her." 

"Ellen,  oh,  Ellen!"  cried  the  father. 

He  drew  back  from  the  girl  in  his  arms  and 
looked  anxiously  and  feelingly  at  her  lover. 
"How  could  you,  Ellen,"  he  said,  "how  could 
you?"  He  was  watching  the  young  man's 
face  with  eyes  full  of  sympathy  and  concern. 
"How  little  you  know  him,"  he  said,  "how 
little  you  understand.  He  will  not  do  that," 
he  added  quickly,  but  looking  questioningly  at 
Latimer  and  speaking  in  a  tone  almost  of 
command.  "He  will  not  undo  all  that  he  has 
done;  I  know  him  better  than  that.  But 
Latimer  made  no  answer,  and  for  a  moment 
the  two  men  stood  watching  each  other  and 
questioning  each  other  with  their  eyes.  Then 
Latimer  turned,  and  without  again  so  much 
as  glancing  at  the  girl  walked  steadily  to  the 
door  and  left  the  room.  He  passed  on  slowly 
down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the  night,  and 
paused  upon  the  top  of  the  steps  leading  to  the 
street.  Below  him  lay  the  avenue  with  its 
double  line  of  lights  stretching  off  in  two  long 
perspectives.  The  lamps  of  hundreds  of  cabs 

116 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 

and  carriages  flashed  as  they  advanced  toward 
him  and  shone  for  a  moment  at  the  turnings 
of  the  cross-streets,  and  from  either  side  came 
the  ceaseless  rush  and  murmur,  and  over  all 
hung  the  strange  mystery  that  covers  a  great 
city  at  night.  Latimer's  rooms  lay  to  the 
south,  but  he  stood  looking  toward  a  spot  to 
the  north  with  a  reckless,  harassed  look  in  his 
face  that  had  not  been  there  for  many  months. 
He  stood  so  for  a  minute,  and  then  gave  a  short 
shrug  of  disgust  at  his  momentary  doubt  and 
ran  quickly  down  the  steps.  "No,"  he  said, 
"if  it  were  for  a  month,  yes;  but  it  is  to  be  for 
many  years,  many  more  long  years."  And 
turning  his  back  resolutely  to  the  north  he  went 
slowly  home. 


117 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

THERE  were  four  rails  around  the  ship's 
sides,  the  three  lower  ones  of  iron  and  the  one 
on  top  of  wood,  and  as  he  looked  between  them 
from  the  canvas  cot  he  recognized  them  as  the 
prison-bars  which  held  him  in.  Outside  his 
prison  lay  a  stretch  of  blinding  blue  water 
which  ended  in  a  line  of  breakers  and  a  yellow 
coast  with  ragged  palms.  Beyond  that  again 
rose  a  range  of  mountain-peaks,  and,  stuck 
upon  the  loftiest  peak  of  all,  a  tiny  block-house. 
It  rested  on  the  brow  of  the  mountain  against 
the  naked  sky  as  impudently  as  a  cracker-box 
set  upon  the  dome  of  a  great  cathedral. 

As  the  transport  rode  on  her  anchor-chains, 
the  iron  bars  around  her  sides  rose  and  sank 
and  divided  the  landscape  with  parallel  lines. 
From  his  cot  the  officer  followed  this  phenome 
non  with  severe,  painstaking  interest.  Some 
times  the  wooden  rail  swept  up  to  the  very 
block-house  itself,  and  for  a  second  of  time 
blotted  it  from  sight.  And  again  it  sank  to 
the  level  of  the  line  of  breakers,  and  wiped  them 
out  of  the  picture  as  though  they  were  a  line  of 
chalk. 

118 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

The  soldier  on  the  cot  promised  himself  that 
the  next  swell  of  the  sea  would  send  the  lowest 
rail  climbing  to  the  very  top  of  the  palm-trees 
or,  even  higher,  to  the  base  of  the  mountains; 
and  when  it  failed  to  reach  even  the  palm-trees 
he  felt  a  distinct  sense  of  ill  use,  of  having  been 
wronged  by  some  one.  There  was  no  other 
reason  for  submitting  to  this  existence  save 
these  tricks  upon  the  wearisome,  glaring  land 
scape;  and  now,  whoever  it  was  who  was  work 
ing  them  did  not  seem  to  be  making  this  effort 
to  entertain  him  with  any  heartiness. 

It  was  most  cruel.  Indeed,  he  decided  hotly, 
it  was  not  to  be  endured;  he  would  bear  it  no 
longer,  he  would  make  his  escape.  But  he 
knew  that  this  move,  which  could  be  conceived 
in  a  moment's  desperation,  could  only  be 
carried  to  success  with  great  strategy,  secrecy, 
and  careful  cunning.  So  he  fell  back  upon  his 
pillow  and  closed  his  eyes,  as  though  he  were 
asleep,  and  then  opening  them  again,  turned 
cautiously,  and  spied  upon  his  keeper.  As 
usual,  his  keeper  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  cot 
turning  the  pages  of  a  huge  paper  filled  with 
pictures  of  the  war  printed  in  daubs  of  tawdry 
colors.  His  keeper  was  a  hard-faced  boy  with 
out  human  pity  or  consideration,  a  very  devil 
of  obstinacy  and  fiendish  cruelty.  To  make  it 
worse,  the  fiend  was  a  person  without  a  collar, 

119 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

in  a  suit  of  soiled  khaki,  with  a  curious  red  cross 
bound  by  a  safety-pin  to  his  left  arm.  He  was 
intent  upon  the  paper  in  his  hands;  he  was 
holding  it  between  his  eyes  and  his  prisoner. 
His  vigilance  had  relaxed,  and  the  moment 
seemed  propitious.  With  a  sudden  plunge  of 
arms  and  legs,  the  prisoner  swept  the  bed-sheet 
from  him,  and  sprang  at  the  wooden  rail  and 
grasped  the  iron  stanchion  beside  it.  He  had 
his  knee  pressed  against  the  top  bar  and  his 
bare  toes  on  the  iron  rail  beneath  it.  Below 
him  the  blue  water  waited  for  him.  It  was 
cool  and  dark  and  gentle  and  deep.  It  would 
certainly  put  out  the  fire  in  his  bones,  he 
thought;  it  might  even  shut  out  the  glare  of 
the  sun  which  scorched  his  eyeballs. 

But  as  he  balanced  for  the  leap,  a  swift  weak 
ness  and  nausea  swept  over  him,  a  weight 
seized  upon  his  body  and  limbs.  He  could 
not  lift  the  lower  foot  from  the  iron  rail,  and  he 
swayed  dizzily  and  trembled.  He  trembled. 
He  who  had  raced  his  men  and  beaten  them  up 
the  hot  hill  to  the  trenches  of  San  Juan.  But 
now  he  was  a  baby  in  the  hands  of  a  giant,  who 
caught  him  by  the  wrist  and  with  an  iron  arm 
clasped  him  around  his  waist  and  pulled  him 
down,  and  shouted,  brutally,  "Help,  some  of 
youse,  quick!  he's  at  it  again.  I  can't  hold 
him." 

1 20 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

More  giants  grasped  him  by  the  arms  and  by 
the  legs.  One  of  them  took  the  hand  that  clung 
to  the  stanchion  in  both  of  his,  and  pulled  back 
the  fingers  one  by  one,  saying,  "Easy  now, 
Lieutenant — easy . ' ' 

The  ragged  palms  and  the  sea  and  block 
house  were  swallowed  up  in  a  black  fog,  and  his 
body  touched  the  canvas  cot  again  with  a  sense 
of  home-coming  and  relief  and  rest.  He  won 
dered  how  he  could  have  cared  to  escape  from 
it.  He  found  it  so  good  to  be  back  again  that 
for  a  long  time  he  wept  quite  happily,  until  the 
fiery  pillow  was  moist  and  cool. 

The  world  outside  of  the  iron  bars  was  like 
a  scene  in  a  theatre  set  for  some  great  event, 
but  the  actors  were  never  ready.  He  remem 
bered  confusedly  a  play  he  had  once  witnessed 
before  that  same  scene.  Indeed,  he  believed 
he  had  played  some  small  part  in  it;  but  he 
remembered  it  dimly,  and  all  trace  of  the  men 
who  had  appeared  with  him  in  it  was  gone. 
He  had  reasoned  it  out  that  they  were  up  there 
behind  the  range  of  mountains,  because  great 
heavy  wagons  and  ambulances  and  cannon  were 
emptied  from  the  ships  at  the  wharf  above  and 
were  drawn  away  in  long  lines  behind  the 
ragged  palms,  moving  always  toward  the  passes 
between  the  peaks.  At  times  he  was  disturbed 
by  the  thought  that  he  should  be  up  and  after 

121 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

them,  that  some  tradition  of  duty  made  his 
presence  with  them  imperative.  There  was 
much  to  be  done  back  of  the  mountains.  Some 
event  of  momentous  import  was  being  carried 
forward  there,  in  which  he  held  a  part;  but 
the  doubt  soon  passed  from  him,  and  he  was 
content  to  lie  and  watch  the  iron  bars  rising  and 
falling  between  the  block-house  and  the  white 
surf. 

If  they  had  been  only  humanely  kind,  his 
lot  would  have  been  bearable,  but  they  starved 
him  and  held  him  down  when  he  wished  to  rise; 
and  they  would  not  put  out  the  fire  in  the 
pillow,  which  they  might  easily  have  done  by 
the  simple  expedient  of  throwing  it  over  the 
ship's  side  into  the  sea.  He  himself  had  done 
this  twice,  but  the  keeper  had  immediately 
brought  a  fresh  pillow  already  heated  for  the 
torture  and  forced  it  under  his  head. 

His  pleasures  were  very  simple,  and  so  few 
that  he  could  not  understand  why  they  robbed 
him  of  them  so  jealously.  One  was  to  watch 
a  green  cluster  of  bananas  that  hung  above 
him  from  the  awning,  twirling  on  a  string.  He 
could  count  as  many  of  them  as  five  before  the 
bunch  turned  and  swung  lazily  back  again, 
when  he  could  count  as  high  as  twelve;  some 
times  when  the  ship  rolled  heavily  he  could 
count  to  twenty.  It  was  a  most  fascinating 

122 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

game,  and  contented  him  for  many  hours. 
But  when  they  found  this  out  they  sent  for  the 
cook  to  come  and  cut  them  down,  and  the  cook 
carried  them  away  to  his  galley. 

Then,  one  day,  a  man  came  out  from  the 
shore,  swimming  through  the  blue  water  with 
great  splashes.  He  was  a  most  charming  man, 
who  spluttered  and  dove  and  twisted  and  lay 
on  his  back  and  kicked  his  legs  in  an  excess  of 
content  and  delight.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to 
watch  him;  not  for  days  had  anything  so 
amusing  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  the 
prison-bars.  But  as  soon  as  the  keeper  saw  that 
the  man  in  the  water  was  amusing  his  prisoner, 
he  leaned  over  the  ship's  side  and  shouted, 
"Sa-ay,  you,  don't  you  know  there's  skarks  in 
there?" 

And  the  swimming  man  said,  "The  h — II 
there  is!"  and  raced  back  to  the  shore  like  a 
porpoise  with  great  lashing  of  the  water,  and 
ran  up  the  beach  half-way  to  the  palms  before 
he  was  satisfied  to  stop.  Then  the  prisoner 
wept  again.  It  was  so  disappointing.  Life 
was  robbed  of  everything  now.  He  remem 
bered  that  in  a  previous  existence  soldiers  who 
cried  were  laughed  at  and  mocked.  But  that 
was  so  far  away  and  it  was  such  an  absurd 
superstition  that  he  had  no  patience  with  it. 
For  what  could  be  more  comforting  to  a  man 

123 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

when  he  is  treated  cruelly  than  to  cry.  It  was 
so  obvious  an  exercise,  and  when  one  is  so 
feeble  that  one  cannot  vault  a  four-railed  barrier 
it  is  something  to  feel  that  at  least  one  is  strong 
enough  to  cry. 

He  escaped  occasionally,  traversing  space 
with  marvellous  rapidity  and  to  great  distances, 
but  never  to  any  successful  purpose;  and  his 
flight  inevitably  ended  in  ignominious  recapture 
and  a  sudden  awakening  in  bed.  At  these 
moments  the  familiar  and  hated  palms,  the 
peaks,  and  the  block-house  were  more  hideous 
in  their  reality  than  the  most  terrifying  of  his 
nightmares. 

These  excursions  afield  were  always  predatory; 
he  went  forth  always  to  seek  food.  With  all 
the  beautiful  world  from  which  to  elect  and 
choose,  he  sought  out  only  those  places  where 
eating  was  studied  and  elevated  to  an  art. 
These  visits  were  much  more  vivid  in  their 
detail  than  any  he  had  ever  before  made  to 
these  same  resorts.  They  invariably  began  in 
a  carriage,  which  carried  him  swiftly  over 
smooth  asphalt.  One  route  brought  him  across 
a  great  and  beautiful  square,  radiating  with 
rows  and  rows  of  flickering  lights;  two  foun 
tains  splashed  in  the  centre  of  the  square,  and 
six  women  of  stone  guarded  its  approaches. 
One  of  the  women  was  hung  with  wreaths  of 

124 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

mourning.  Ahead  of  him  the  late  twilight 
darkened  behind  a  great  arch,  which  seemed  to 
rise  on  the  horizon  of  the  world,  a  great  window 
into  the  heavens  beyond.  At  either  side  strings 
of  white  and  colored  globes  hung  among  the 
trees,  and  the  sound  of  music  came  joyfully 
from  theatres  in  the  open  air.  He  knew  the 
restaurant  under  the  trees  to  which  he  was  now 
hastening,  and  the  fountain  beside  it,  and  the 
very  sparrows  balancing  on  the  fountain's  edge; 
he  knew  every  waiter  at  each  of  the  tables,  he 
felt  again  the  gravel  crunching  under  his  feet, 
he  saw  the  maitre  d' hotel  coming  forward  smiling 
to  receive  his  command,  and  the  waiter  in  the 
green  apron  bowing  at  his  elbow,  deferential 
and  important,  presenting  the  list  of  wines. 
But  his  adventure  never  passed  that  point,  for 
he  was  captured  again  and  once  more  bound  to 
his  cot  with  a  close  burning  sheet. 

Or  else,  he  drove  more  sedately  through  the 
London  streets  in  the  late  evening  twilight, 
leaning  expectantly  across  the  doors  of  the 
hansom  and  pulling  carefully  at  his  white 
gloves.  Other  hansoms  flashed  past  him,  the 
occupant  of  each  with  his  mind  fixed  on  one 
idea — dinner.  He  was  one  of  a  million  of 
people  who  were  about  to  dine,  or  who  had 
dined,  or  who  were  deep  in  dining.  He  was  so 
famished,  so  weak  for  food  of  any  quality,  that 

125 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

the  galloping  horse  in  the  hansom  seemed  to 
crawl.  The  lights  of  the  Embankment  passed 
like  the  lamps  of  a  railroad  station  as  seen  from 
the  window  of  an  express;  and  while  his  mind 
was  still  torn  between  the  choice  of  a  thin  or 
thick  soup  or  an  immediate  attack  upon  cold 
beef,  he  was  at  the  door,  and  the  chasseur 
touched  his  cap,  and  the  little  chasseur  put  the 
wicker  guard  over  the  hansom's  wheel.  As  he 
jumped  out  he  said,  "Give  him  half-a-crown," 
and  the  driver  called  after  him,  "Thank  you,  sir." 
It  was  a  beautiful  world,  this  world  outside 
of  the  iron  bars.  Every  one  in  it  contributed 
to  his  pleasure  and  to  his  comfort.  In  this 
world  he  was  not  starved  nor  man-handled. 
He  thought  of  this  joyfully  as  he  leaped  up  the 
stairs,  where  young  men  with  grave  faces  and 
with  their  hands  held  negligently  behind  their 
backs  bowed  to  him  in  polite  surprise  at  his 
speed.  But  they  had  not  been  starved  on  con 
densed  milk.  He  threw  his  coat  and  hat  at 
one  of  them,  and  came  down  the  hall  fearfully 
and  quite  weak  with  dread  lest  it  should  not  be 
real.  His  voice  was  shaking  when  he  asked 
Ellis  if  he  had  reserved  a  table.  The  place 
was  all  so  real,  it  must  be  true  this  time.  The 
way  Ellis  turned  and  ran  his  finger  down  the 
list  showed  it  was  real,  because  Ellis  always  did 
that,  even  when  he  knew  there  would  not  be 

126 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

an  empty  table  for  an  hour.  The  room  was 
crowded  with  beautiful  women;  under  the  light 
of  the  red  shades  they  looked  kind  and  approach 
able,  and  there  was  food  on  every  table,  and 
iced  drinks  in  silver  buckets.  It  was  with  the 
joy  of  great  relief  that  he  heard  Ellis  say  to  his 
underling,  "Numero  cinq,  sur  la  terrace,  un 
couvert."  It  was  real  at  last.  Outside,  the 
Thames  lay  a  great  gray  shadow.  The  lights  of 
the  Embankment  flashed  and  twinkled  across 
it,  the  tower  of  the  House  of  Commons  rose 
against  the  sky,  and  here,  inside,  the  waiter  was 
hurrying  toward  him  carrying  a  smoking  plate 
of  rich  soup  with  a  pungent,  intoxicating  odor. 

And  then  the  ragged  palms,  the  glaring  sun, 
the  immovable  peaks,  and  the  white  surf  stood 
again  before  him.  The  iron  rails  swept  up  and 
sank  again,  the  fever  sucked  at  his  bones,  and 
the  pillow  scorched  his  cheek. 

One  morning  for  a  brief  moment  he  came 
back  to  real  life  again  and  lay  quite  still,  seeing 
everything  about  him  with  clear  eyes  and  for 
the  first  time,  as  though  he  had  but  just  that 
instant  been  lifted  over  the  ship's  side.  His 
keeper,  glancing  up,  found  the  prisoner's  eyes 
considering  him  curiously,  and  recognized  the 
change.  The  instinct  of  discipline  brought  him 
to  his  feet  with  his  fingers  at  his  sides. 

"Is  the  Lieutenant  feeling  better?" 
127 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

The  Lieutenant  surveyed  him  gravely. 

"You  are  one  of  our  hospital  stewards." 

"Yes,  Lieutenant." 

"Why  ar'n't  you  with  the  regiment?" 

"  I  was  wounded,  too,  sir.  I  got  it  same  time 
you  did,  Lieutenant." 

"Am  I  wounded?  Of  course,  I  remember. 
Is  this  a  hospital  ship?" 

The  steward  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "She's 
one  of  the  transports.  They  have  turned  her 
over  to  the  fever  cases." 

The  Lieutenant  opened  his  lips  to  ask  another 
question;  but  his  own  body  answered  that  one, 
'and  for  a  moment  he  lay  silent. 

"Do  they  know  up  North  that  I — that  I'm 
all  right?" 

"Oh,  yes,  the  papers  had  it  in — there  was 
pictures  of  the  Lieutenant  in  some  of  them." 

"Then  I've  been  ill  some  time?" 

"Oh,  about  eight  days." 

The  soldier  moved  uneasily,  and  the  nurse 
in  him  became  uppermost. 

"I  guess  the  Lieutenant  hadn't  better  talk 
any  more,"  he  said.  It  was  his  voice  now 
which  held  authority. 

The  Lieutenant  looked  out  at  the  palms  and 
the  silent  gloomy  mountains  and  the  empty 
coast-line,  where  the  same  wave  was  rising  and 
falling  with  weary  persistence. 

128 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

"  Eight  days,"  he  said.  His  eyes  shut  quickly, 
as  though  with  a  sudden  touch  of  pain.  He 
turned  his  head  and  sought  for  the  figure  at 
the  foot  of  the  cot.  Already  the  figure  had 
grown  faint  and  was  receding  and  swaying. 

"Has  any  one  written  or  cabled?"  the  Lieu 
tenant  spoke,  hurriedly.  He  was  fearful  lest 
the  figure  should  disappear  altogether  before  he 
could  obtain  his  answer.  "Has  any  one  come?" 

"Why,  they  couldn't  get  here,  Lieutenant,  not 
yet." 

The  voice  came  very  faintly.  "You  go  to 
sleep  now,  and  I'll  run  and  fetch  some  letters 
and  telegrams.  When  you  wake  up,  maybe 
I'll  have  a  lot  for  you." 

But  the  Lieutenant  caught  the  nurse  by  the 
wrist,  and  crushed  his  hand  in  his  own  thin 
fingers.  They  were  hot,  and  left  the  steward's 
skin  wet  with  perspiration.  The  Lieutenant 
laughed  gayly. 

"You  see,  Doctor,"  he  said,  briskly,  "that 
you  can't  kill  me.  I  can't  die.  I've  got  to 
live,  you  understand.  Because,  sir,  she  said 
she  would  come.  She  said  if  I  was  wounded,  or 
if  I  was  ill,  she  would  come  to  me.  She  didn't 
care  what  people  thought.  She  would  come 
anyway  and  nurse  me — well,  she  will  come. 

"So,  Doctor — old  man — "  He  plucked  at 
the  steward's  sleeve,  and  stroked  his  hand 

129 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

eagerly,  "old  man — "  he  began  again,  beseech 
ingly,  "you'll  not  let  me  die  until  she  comes, 
will  you?  What?  No,  I  know  I  won't  die. 
Nothing  made  by  man  can  kill  me.  No,  not 
until  she  comes.  Then,  after  that — eight  days, 
she'll  be  here  soon,  any  moment?  What? 
You  think  so,  too?  Don't  you?  Surely,  yes, 
any  moment.  Yes,  I'll  go  to  sleep  now,  and 
when  you  see  her  rowing  out  from  shore  you 
wake  me.  You'll  know  her;  you  can't  make  a 
mistake.  She  is  like — no,  there  is  no  one  like 
her — but  you  can't  make  a  mistake." 

That  day  strange  figures  began  to  mount  the 
sides  of  the  ship,  and  to  occupy  its  every  turn 
and  angle  of  space.  Some  of  them  fell  on  their 
knees  and  slapped  the  bare  decks  with  their 
hands,  and  laughed  and  cried  out,  "  Thank  God, 
I'll  see  God's  country  again!"  Some  of  them 
were  regulars,  bound  in  bandages;  some  were 
volunteers,  dirty  and  hollow-eyed,  with  long 
beards  on  boy's  faces.  Some  came  on  crutches; 
others  with  their  arms  around  the  shoulders  of 
their  comrades,  staring  ahead  of  them  with  a 
fixed  smile,  their  lips  drawn  back  and  their  teeth 
protruding.  At  every  second  step  they  stum 
bled,  and  the  face  of  each  was  swept  by  swift 
ripples  of  pain. 

They  lay  on  cots  so  close  together  that  the 
nurses  could  not  walk  between  them.  They 

130 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

lay  on  the  wet  decks,  in  the  scuppers,  and  along 
the  transoms  and  hatches.  They  were  like 
shipwrecked  mariners  clinging  to  a  raft,  and 
they  asked  nothing  more  than  that  the  ship's 
bow  be  turned  toward  home.  Once  satisfied  as 
to  that,  they  relaxed  into  a  state  of  self-pity 
and  miserable  oblivion  to  their  environment, 
from  which  hunger  nor  nausea  nor  aching  bones 
could  shake  them. 

The  hospital  steward  touched  the  Lieutenant 
lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"We  are  going  North,  sir,"  he  said.  "The 
transport's  ordered  North  to  New  York,  with 
these  volunteers  and  the  sick  and  wounded. 
Do  you  hear  me,  sir?" 

The  Lieutenant  opened  his  eyes.  "Has  she 
come?"  he  asked. 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  the  hospital  steward.  He 
glanced  impatiently  at  the  blue  mountains  and 
the  yellow  coast,  from  which  the  transport  was 
drawing  rapidly  away. 

"Well,  I  can't  see  her  coming  just  now,"  he 
said.  "But  she  will,"  he  added. 

"You  let  me  know  at  once  when  she  comes." 

"Why,  cert'nly,  of  course,"  said  the  steward. 

Three  trained  nurses  came  over  the  side  just 
before  the  transport  started  North.  One  was 
a  large,  motherly  looking  woman,  with  a  Ger 
man  accent.  She  had  been  a  trained  nurse, 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

first  in  Berlin,  and  later  in  the  London  Hospital 
in  Whitechapel,  and  at  Bellevue.  The  nurse 
was  dressed  in  white,  and  wore  a  little  silver 
medal  at  her  throat;  and  she  was  strong  enough 
to  lift  a  volunteer  out  of  his  cot  and  hold  him 
easily  in  her  arms,  while  one  of  the  convales 
cents  pulled  his  cot  out  of  the  rain.  Some  of 
the  men  called  her  "nurse";  others,  who  wore 
scapulars  around  their  necks,  called  her  "Sis 
ter";  and  the  officers  of  the  medical  staff 
addressed  her  as  Miss  Bergen. 

Miss  Bergen  halted  beside  the  cot  of  the  Lieu 
tenant  and  asked,  "Is  this  the  fever  case  you 
spoke  about,  Doctor — the  one  you  want  moved 
to  the  officers'  ward?"  She  slipped  her  hand 
up  under  his  sleeve  and  felt  his  wrist. 

"His  pulse  is  very  high,"  she  said  to  the  stew 
ard.  "When  did  you  take  his  temperature?" 
She  drew  a  little  morocco  case  from  her  pocket 
and  from  that  took  a  clinical  thermometer, 
which  she  shook  up  and  down,  eying  the  patient 
meanwhile  with  a  calm,  impersonal  scrutiny. 
The  Lieutenant  raised  his  head  and  stared  up 
at  the  white  figure  beside  his  cot.  His  eyes 
opened  and  then  shut  quickly,  with  a  startled 
look,  in  which  doubt  struggled  with  wonderful 
happiness.  His  hand  stole  out  fearfully  and 
warily  until  it  touched  her  apron,  and  then, 
finding  it  was  real,  he  clutched  it  desperately, 

132 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

and  twisting  his  face  and  body  toward  her,  pulled 
her  down,  clasping  her  hands  in  both  of  his, 
and  pressing  them  close  to  his  face  and  eyes 
and  lips.  He  put  them  from  him  for  an  instant, 
and  looked  at  her  through  his  tears. 

"Sweetheart,"  he  whispered,  "sweetheart,  I 
knew  you'd  come." 

As  the  nurse  knelt  on  the  deck  beside  him,  her 
thermometer  slipped  from  her  fingers  and  broke, 
and  she  gave  an  exclamation  of  annoyance. 
The  young  Doctor  picked  up  the  pieces  and 
tossed  them  overboard.  Neither  of  them  spoke, 
but  they  smiled  appreciatively.  The  Lieu 
tenant  was  looking  at  the  nurse  with  the  wonder 
and  hope  and  hunger  of  soul  in  his  eyes  with 
which  a  dying  man  looks  at  the  cross  the  priest 
holds  up  before  him.  What  he  saw  where  the 
German  nurse  was  kneeling  was  a  tall,  fair  girl 
with  great  bands  and  masses  of  hair,  with  a 
head  rising  like  a  lily  from  a  firm,  white  throat, 
set  on  broad  shoulders  above  a  straight  back 
and  sloping  breast — a  tall,  beautiful  creature, 
half-girl,  half-woman,  who  looked  back  at  him 
shyly,  but  steadily. 

"Listen,"  he  said. 

The  voice  of  the  sick  man  was  so  sure  and  so 
sane  that  the  young  Doctor  started,  and  moved 
nearer  to  the  head  of  the  cot.  "  Listen,  dearest," 
the  Lieutenant  whispered.  "I  wanted  to  tell 

133 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

you  before  I  came  South.  But  I  did  not  dare; 
and  then  I  was  afraid  something  might  happen 
to  me,  and  I  could  never  tell  you,  and  you  would 
never  know.  So  I  wrote  it  to  you  in  the  will 
I  made  at  Baiquiri,  the  night  before  the  land 
ing.  If  you  hadn't  come  now,  you  would  have 
learned  it  in  that  way.  You  would  have  read 
there  that  there  never  was  any  one  but  you ;  the 
rest  were  all  dream  people,  foolish,  silly — mad. 
There  is  no  one  else  in  the  world  but  you;  you 
have  been  the  only  thing  in  life  that  has  counted. 
I  thought  I  might  do  something  down  here  that 
would  make  you  care.  But  I  got  shot  going 
up  a  hill,  and  after  that  I  wasn't  able  to  do  any 
thing.  It  was  very  hot,  and  the  hills  were  on 
fire;  and  they  took  me  prisoner,  and  kept  me 
tied  down  here,  burning  on  these  coals.  I 
can't  live  much  longer,  but  now  that  I  have 
told  you  I  can  have  peace.  They  tried  to  kill 
me  before  you  came;  but  they  didn't  know  I 
loved  you,  they  didn't  know  that  men  who  love 
you  can't  die.  They  tried  to  starve  my  love 
for  you,  to  burn  it  out  of  me;  they  tried  to 
reach  it  with  their  knives.  But  my  love  for 
you  is  my  soul,  and  they  can't  kill  a  man's 
soul.  Dear  heart,  I  have  lived  because  you 
lived.  Now  that  you  know — now  that  you 
understand — what  does  it  matter?" 
Miss  Bergen  shook  her  head  with  great 
134 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

vigor.  "Nonsense,"  she  said,  cheerfully. 
"You  are  not  going  to  die.  As  soon  as  we  move 
you  out  of  this  rain,  and  some  food  cook " 

"Good  God!"  cried  the  young  Doctor,  sav 
agely.  "Do  you  want  to  kill  him?" 

When  she  spoke,  the  patient  had  thrown  his 
arms  heavily  across  his  face,  and  had  fallen 
back,  lying  rigid  on  the  pillow. 

The  Doctor  led  the  way  across  the  prostrate 
bodies,  apologizing  as  he  went.  "I  am  sorry  I 
spoke  so  quickly,"  he  said,  "but  he  thought 
you  were  real.  I  mean  he  thought  you  were 
some  one  he  really  knew " 

"He  was  just  delirious,"  said  the  German 
nurse,  calmly. 

The  Doctor  mixed  himself  a  Scotch  and  soda 
and  drank  it  with  a  single  gesture. 

"Ugh !"  he  said  to  the  ward-room.  " I  feel  as 
though  I'd  been  opening  another  man's  letters." 

The  transport  drove  through  the  empty  seas 
with  heavy,  clumsy  upheavals,  rolling  like  a 
buoy.  Having  been  originally  intended  for  the 
freight-carrying  trade,  she  had  no  sympathy 
with  hearts  that  beat  for  a  sight  of  their  native 
land,  or  for  lives  that  counted  their  remaining 
minutes  by  the  throbbing  of  her  engines.  Oc 
casionally,  without  apparent  reason,  she  was 
thrown  violently  from  her  course;  but  it  was 

135 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

invariably  the  case  that  when  her  stern  went 
to  starboard,  something  splashed  in  the  water 
on  her  port  side  and  drifted  past  her,  until, 
when  it  had  cleared  the  blades  of  her  propeller, 
a  voice  cried  out,  and  she  was  swung  back  on 
her  home-bound  track  again. 

The  Lieutenant  missed  the  familiar  palms 
and  the  tiny  block-house;  and  seeing  nothing 
beyond  the  iron  rails  but  great  wastes  of  gray 
water,  he  decided  he  was  on  board  a  prison- 
ship,  or  that  he  had  been  strapped  to  a  raft 
and  cast  adrift.  People  came  for  hours  at  a 
time  and  stood  at  the  foot  of  his  cot,  and  talked 
with  him  and  he  to  them — people  he  had  loved 
and  people  he  had  long  forgotten,  some  of 
whom  he  had  thought  were  dead.  One  of  them 
he  could  have  sworn  he  had  seen  buried  in  a  deep 
trench,  and  covered  with  branches  of  palmetto. 
He  had  heard  the  bugler,  with  tears  choking 
him,  sound  "taps";  and  with  his  own  hand  he 
had  placed  the  dead  man's  campaign  hat  on 
the  mound  of  fresh  earth  above  the  grave. 
Yet  here  he  was  still  alive,  and  he  came  with 
other  men  of  his  troop  to  speak  to  him;  but 
when  he  reached  out  to  them  they  were  gone — 
the  real  and  the  unreal,  the  dead  and  the  living 
— and  even  She  disappeared  whenever  he  tried 
to  take  her  hand,  and  sometimes  the  hospital 
steward  drove  her  away. 

136 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

"Did  that  young  lady  say  when  she  was 
coming  back  again?"  he  asked  the  steward. 

"The  young  lady!  What  young  lady?" 
asked  the  steward,  wearily. 

"The  one  who  has  been  sitting  there,"  he 
answered.  He  pointed  with  his  gaunt  hand  at 
the  man  in  the  next  cot. 

"Oh,  that  young  lady.  Yes,  she's  coming 
back.  She's  just  gone  below  to  fetch  you  some 
hardtack." 

The  young  volunteer  in  the  next  cot  whined 
grievously. 

"That  crazy  man  gives  me  the  creeps,"  he 
groaned.  "He's  always  waking  me  up,  and 
looking  at  me  as  though  he  was  going  to  eat 


me." 


"Shut  your  head,"  said  the  steward.  "He's 
a  better  crazy  man  than  you'll  ever  be  with 
the  little  sense  you've  got.  And  he  has  two 
Mauser  holes  in  him.  Crazy,  eh?  It's  a 
damned  good  thing  for  you  that  there  was  about 
four  thousand  of  us  regulars  just  as  crazy  as 
him,  or  you'd  never  seen  the  top  of  the  hill." 

One  morning  there  was  a  great  commotion  on 
deck,  and  all  the  convalescents  balanced  them 
selves  on  the  rail,  shivering  in  their  pajamas, 
and  pointed  one  way.  The  transport  was 
moving  swiftly  and  smoothly  through  water 
as  flat  as  a  lake,  and  making  a  great  noise  with 

137 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

her  steam-whistle.  TPie  noise  was  echoed  by 
many  more  steam-whistles;  and  the  ghosts  of 
out-bound  ships  and  tugs  and  excursion  steam 
ers  ran  past  her  out  of  the  mist  and  disappeared, 
saluting  joyously.  All  of  the  excursion  steamers 
had  a  heavy  list  to  the  side  nearest  the  trans 
port,  and  the  ghosts  on  them  crowded  to  that 
rail  and  waved  handkerchiefs  and  cheered. 
The  fog  lifted  suddenly,  and  between  the  iron 
rails  the  Lieutenant  saw  high  green  hills  on 
either  side  of  a  great  harbor.  Houses  and  trees 
and  thousands  of  masts  swept  past  like  a  pano 
rama;  and  beyond  was  a  mirage  of  three  cities, 
with  curling  smoke-wreaths  and  sky-reaching 
buildings,  and  a  great  swinging  bridge,  and  a 
giant  statue  of  a  woman  waving  a  welcome 
home. 

The  Lieutenant  surveyed  the  spectacle  with 
cynical  disbelief.  He  was  far  too  wise  and  far 
too  cunning  to  be  bewitched  by  it.  In  his 
heart  he  pitied  the  men  about  him,  who  laughed 
wildly,  and  shouted,  and  climbed  recklessly  to 
the  rails  and  ratlines.  He  had  been  deceived 
too  often  not  to  know  that  it  was  not  real.  He 
knew  from  cruel  experience  that  in  a  few  mo 
ments  the  tall  buildings  would  crumble  away, 
the  thousands  of  columns  of  white  smoke  that 
flashed  like  snow  in  the  sun,  the  busy,  shrieking 
tug-boats,  and  the  great  statue  would  vanish 

138 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

into  the  sea,  leaving  it  gray  and  bare.  He 
closed  his  eyes  and  shut  the  vision  out.  It 
was  so  beautiful  that  it  tempted  him;  but  he 
would  not  be  mocked,  and  he  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands.  They  were  carrying  the  farce  too 
far,  he  thought.  It  was  really  too  absurd;  for 
now  they  were  at  a  wharf  which  was  so  real 
that,  had  he  not  known  by  previous  suffering, 
he  would  have  been  utterly  deceived  by  it. 
And  there  were  great  crowds  of  smiling,  cheering 
people,  and  a  waiting  guard  of  honor  in  fresh 
uniforms,  and  rows  of  police  pushing  the  people 
this  way  and  that;  and  these  men  about  him 
were  taking  it  all  quite  seriously,  and  making 
ready  to  disembark,  carrying  their  blanket-rolls 
and  rifles  with  them. 

A  band  was  playing  joyously,  and  the  man  in 
the  next  cot,  who  was  being  lifted  to  a  stretcher, 
said,  "There's  the  Governor  and  his  staff; 
that's  him  in  the  high  hat."  It  was  really  very 
well  done.  The  Custom-House  and  the  Ele 
vated  Railroad  and  Castle  Garden  were  as  like 
to  life  as  a  photograph,  and  the  crowd  was  as 
well  handled  as  a  mob  in  a  play.  His  heart 
ached  for  it  so  that  he  could  not  bear  the  pain, 
and  he  turned  his  back  on  it.  It  was  cruel  to 
keep  it  up  so  long.  His  keeper  lifted  him  in 
his  arms,  and  pulled  him  into  a  dirty  uniform 
which  had  belonged,  apparently,  to  a  much 

139 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

larger  man — a  man  who  had  been  killed  prob 
ably,  for  there  were  dark  brown  marks  of  blood 
on  the  tunic  and  breeches.  When  he  tried  to 
stand  on  his  feet,  Castle  Garden  and  the  Bat 
tery  disappeared  in  a  black  cloud  of  night,  just 
as  he  knew  they  would;  but  when  he  opened 
his  eyes  from  the  stretcher,  they  had  returned 
again.  It  was  a  most  remarkably  vivid  vision. 
They  kept  it  up  so  well.  Now  the  young  Doctor 
and  the  hospital  steward  were  pretending  to 
carry  him  down  a  gangplank  and  into  an  open 
space;  and  he  saw  quite  close  to  him  a  long  line 
policemen,  and  behind  them  thousands  of  faces, 
some  of  them  women's  faces — women  who 
pointed  at  him  and  then  shook  their  heads  and 
cried,  and  pressed  their  hands  to  their  cheeks, 
still  looking  at  him.  He  wondered  why  they 
cried.  He  did  not  know  them,  nor  did  they 
know  him.  No  one  knew  him;  these  people 
were  only  ghosts. 

There  was  a  quick  parting  in  the  crowd.  A 
man  he  had  once  known  shoved  two  of  the  po 
licemen  to  one  side,  and  he  heard  a  girl's  voice 
speaking  his  name,  like  a  sob;  and  She  came 
running  out  across  the  open  space  and  fell  on 
her  knees  beside  the  stretcher,  and  bent  down 
over  him,  and  he  was  clasped  in  two  young, 
firm  arms. 

"Of  course  it  is  not  real,  of  course  it  is  not 
140 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

She,"  he  assured  himself.  "  Because  She  would 
not  do  such  a  thing.  Before  all  these  people 
She  would  not  do  it." 

But  he  trembled  and  his  heart  throbbed  so 
cruelly  that  he  could  not  bear  the  pain. 

She  was  pretending  to  cry. 

"They  wired  us  you  had  started  for  Tampa 
on  the  hospital  ship,"  She  was  saying,  "and 
Aunt  and  I  went  all  the  way  there  before  we 
heard  you  had  been  sent  North.  We  have 
been  on  the  cars  a  week.  That  is  why  I  missed 
you.  Do  you  understand?  It  was  not  my  fault. 
I  tried  to  come.  Indeed,  I  tried  to  come." 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  up  fearfully 
at  the  young  Doctor. 

"Tell  me,  why  does  he  look  at  me  like  that?" 
she  asked.  "He  doesn't  know  me.  Is  he  very 
ill?  Tell  me  the  truth."  She  drew  in  her 
breath  quickly.  "Of  course  you  will  tell  me 
the  truth." 

When  she  asked  the  question  he  felt  her  arms 
draw  tight  about  his  shoulders.  It  was  as 
though  she  was  holding  him  to  herself,  and  from 
some  one  who  had  reached  out  for  him.  In 
his  trouble  he  turned  to  his  old  friend  and 
keeper.  His  voice  was  hoarse  and  very  low. 

"Is  this  the  same  young  lady  who  was  on 
the  transport — the  one  you  used  to  drive 
away?" 

141 


ON  THE   FEVER  SHIP 

In  his  embarrassment,  the  hospital  steward 
blushed  under  his  tan,  and  stammered. 

"Of  course  it's  the  same  young  lady,"  the 
Doctor  answered,  briskly.  "And  I  won't 
let  them  drive  her  away."  He  turned  to 
her,  smiling  gravely.  "I  think  his  condition 
has  ceased  to  be  dangerous,  madam,"  he 
said. 

People  who  in  a  former  existence  had  been 
his  friends,  and  Her  brother,  gathered  about 
his  stretcher  and  bore  him  through  the  crowd 
and  lifted  him  into  a  carriage  filled  with  cush 
ions,  among  which  he  sank  lower  and  lower. 
Then  She  sat  beside  him,  and  he  heard  Her 
brother  say  to  the  coachman,  "Home,  and  drive 
slowly  and  keep  on  the  asphalt." 

The  carriage  moved  forward,  and  She  put 
her  arm  about  him,  and  his  head  fell  on  her 
shoulder,  and  neither  of  them  spoke.  The 
vision  had  lasted  so  long  now  that  he  was  torn 
with  the  joy  that  after  all  it  might  be  real. 
But  he  could  not  bear  the  awakening  if  it  were 
not,  so  he  raised  his  head  fearfully  and  looked 
up  into  the  beautiful  eyes  above  him.  His 
brows  were  knit,  and  he  struggled  with  a  great 
doubt  and  an  awful  joy. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  "is  it  real?" 

"Is  it  real?"  she  repeated. 

Even  as  a  dream,  it  was  so  wonderfully  beau- 
142 


ON  THE  FEVER  SHIP 

tiful  that  he  was  satisfied  if  it  could  only  con 
tinue  so,  if  but  for  a  little  while. 

"Do  you  think,"  he  begged  again,  trembling, 
"that  it  is  going  to  last  much  longer?" 

She  smiled,  and,  bending  her  head  slowly, 
kissed  him. 

"It  is  going  to  last — always,"  she  said. 


143 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

PRENTISS  had  a  long  lease  on  the  house, 
and  because  it  stood  in  Jermyn  Street  the 
upper  floors  were,  as  a  matter  of  course,  turned 
into  lodgings  for  single  gentlemen;  and  because 
Prentiss  was  a  Florist  to  the  Queen,  he  placed  a 
lion  and  unicorn  over  his  flower-shop,  just  in 
front  of  the  middle  window  on  the  first  floor. 
By  stretching  a  little,  each  of  them  could  see 
into  the  window  just  beyond  him,  and  could 
hear  all  that  was  said  inside;  and  such  things 
as  they  saw  and  heard  during  the  reign  of  Cap 
tain  Carrington,  who  moved  in  at  the  same  time 
they  did!  By  day  the  table  in  the  centre  of 
the  room  was  covered  with  maps,  and  the 
Captain  sat  with  a  box  of  pins,  with  different- 
colored  flags  wrapped  around  them,  and  amused 
himself  by  sticking  them  in  the  maps  and  mea 
suring  the  spaces  in  between,  swearing  mean 
while  to  himself.  It  was  a  selfish  amusement,  but 
it  appeared  to  be  the  Captain's  only  intellectual 
pursuit,  for  at  night  the  maps  were  rolled  up, 
and  a  green  cloth  was  spread  across  the  table, 
and  there  was  much  company  and  popping  of 
soda-bottles,  and  little  heaps  of  gold  and  silver 

144 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

were  moved  this  way  and  that  across  the  cloth. 
The  smoke  drifted  out  of  the  open  windows, 
and  the  laughter  of  the  Captain's  guests  rang 
out  loudly  in  the  empty  street,  so  that  the  po 
liceman  halted  and  raised  his  eyes  reprovingly 
to  the  lighted  windows,  and  cabmen  drew  up 
beneath  them  and  lay  in  wait,  dozing  on  their 
folded  arms,  for  the  Captain's  guests  to  depart. 
The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  were  rather  ashamed 
of  the  scandal  of  it,  and  they  were  glad  when, 
one  day,  the  Captain  went  away  with  his  tin 
boxes  and  gun-cases  piled  high  on  a  four-wheeler. 
Prentiss  stood  on  the  sidewalk  and  said,  "I 
wish  you  good  luck,  sir."  And  the  Captain 
said,  "I'm  coming  back  a  Major,  Prentiss." 
But  he  never  came  back.  And  one  day — the 
Lion  remembered  the  day  very  well,  for  on  that 
same  day  the  newsboys  ran  up  and  down 
Jermyn  Street  shouting  out  the  news  of  "a 
'orrible  disaster"  to  the  British  arms.  It  was 
then  that  a  young  lady  came  to  the  door  in  a 
hansom,  and  Prentiss  went  out  to  meet  her  and 
led  her  up-stairs.  They  heard  him  unlock  the 
Captain's  door  and  say,  "This  is  his  room, 
miss,"  and  after  he  had  gone  they  watched  her 
standing  quite  still  by  the  centre-table.  She 
stood  there  a  very  long  time  looking  slowly 
about  her,  and  then  she  took  a  photograph  of 
the  Captain  from  the  frame  on  the  mantel  and 

145 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

slipped  it  into  her  pocket,  and  when  she  went 
out  again  her  veil  was  down,  and  she  was  crying. 
She  must  have  given  Prentiss  as  much  as  a 
sovereign,  for  he  called  her  "Your  ladyship/* 
which  he  never  did  under  a  sovereign. 

And  she  drove  off,  and  they  never  saw  her 
again  either,  nor  could  they  hear  the  address 
she  gave  the  cabman.  But  it  was  somewhere 
up  St.  John's  Wood  way. 

After  that  the  rooms  were  empty  for  some 
months,  and  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  were 
forced  to  amuse  themselves  with  the  beautiful 
ladies  and  smart-looking  men  who  came  to 
Prentiss  to  buy  flowers  and  "buttonholes,"  and 
the  little  round  baskets  of  strawberries,  and 
even  the  peaches  at  three  shillings  each,  which 
looked  so  tempting  as  they  lay  in  the  window, 
wrapped  up  in  cotton-wool,  like  jewels  of  great 
price. 

Then  Philip  Carroll,  the  American  gentleman, 
came,  and  they  heard  Prentiss  telling  him  that 
those  rooms  had  always  let  for  five  guineas  a 
week,  which  they  knew  was  not  true;  but  they 
also  knew  that  in  the  economy  of  nations  there 
must  always  be  a  higher  price  for  the  rich  Amer 
ican,  or  else  why  was  he  given  that  strange 
accent,  except  to  betray  him  into  the  hands  of 
the  London  shopkeeper,  and  the  London  cabby? 

The  American  walked  to  the  window  toward 
146 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

the  west,  which  was  the  window  nearest  the 
Lion,  and  looked  out  into  the  graveyard  of  St. 
James's  Church,  that  stretched  between  their 
street  and  Piccadilly. 

"  You're  lucky  in  having  a  bit  of  green  to 
look  out  on,"  he  said  to  Prentiss.  "I'll  take 
these  rooms — at  five  guineas.  That's  more 
than  they're  worth,  you  know,  but  as  I  know 
it,  too,  your  conscience  needn't  trouble  you." 

Then  his  eyes  fell  on  the  Lion,  and  he  nodded 
to  him  gravely.  "How  do  you  do?"  he  said. 
"I'm  coming  to  live  with  you  for  a  little  time. 
I  have  read  about  you  and  your  friends  over 
there.  It  is  a  hazard  of  new  fortunes  with  me, 
your  Majesty,  so  be  kind  to  me,  and  if  I  win,  I 
will  put  a  new  coat  of  paint  on  your  shield  and 
gild  you  all  over  again." 

Prentiss  smiled  obsequiously  at  the  Ameri 
can's  pleasantry,  but  the  new  lodger  only  stared 
at  him. 

"He  seemed  a  social  gentleman,"  said  the 
Unicorn,  that  night,  when  the  Lion  and  he  were 
talking  it  over.  "Now  the  Captain,  the  whole 
time  he  was  here,  never  gave  us  so  much  as  a 
look.  This  one  says  he  has  read  of  us." 

"And  why  not?"  growled  the  Lion.  "I 
hope  Prentiss  heard  what  he  said  of  our  needing 
a  new  layer  of  gilt.  It's  disgraceful.  You  can 
see  that  Lion  over  Scarlett's,  the  butcher,  as 

147 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

far  as  Regent  Street,  and  Scarlett  is  only  one 
of  Salisbury's  creations.  He  received  his  Let 
ters-Patent  only  two  years  back.  We  date 
from  Palmerston." 

The  lodger  came  up  the  street  just  at  that 
moment,  and  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the 
Lion  and  the  Unicorn  from  the  sidewalk,  before 
he  opened  the  door  with  his  night-key.  They 
heard  him  enter  the  room  and  feel  on  the  man 
tel  for  his  pipe,  and  a  moment  later  he  appeared 
at  the  Lion's  window  and  leaned  on  the  sill, 
looking  down  into  the  street  below  and  blowing 
whiffs  of  smoke  up  into  the  warm  night-air. 

It  was  a  night  in  June,  and  the  pavements 
were  dry  under  foot  and  the  streets  were  filled 
with  well-dressed  people,  going  home  from  the 
play,  and  with  groups  of  men  in  black  and 
white,  making  their  way  to  supper  at  the  clubs. 
Hangoms  of  inky-black,  with  shining  lamps 
inside  and  out,  dashed  noiselessly  past  on  mys 
terious  errands,  chasing  close  on  each  other's 
heels  on  a  mad  race,  each  to  its  separate  goal. 
From  the  cross  streets  rose  the  noises  of  early 
night,  the  rumble  of  the  'buses,  the  creaking  of 
their  brakes  as  they  unlocked,  the  cries  of  the 
"extras,"  and  the  merging  of  thousands  of 
human  voices  in  a  dull  murmur.  The  great 
world  of  London  was  closing  its  shutters  for 
the  night  and  putting  out  the  lights;  and  the 

148 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

new  lodger  from  across  the  sea  listened  to  it 
with  his  heart  beating  quickly,  and  laughed  to 
stifle  the  touch  of  fear  and  homesickness  that 
rose  in  him. 

"I  have  seen  a  great  play  to-night,"  he  said 
to  the  Lion,  "nobly  played  by  great  players. 
What  will  they  care  for  my  poor  wares?  I  see 
that  I  have  been  over-bold.  But  we  cannot  go 
back  now — not  yet." 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and 
nodded  "good-night"  to  the  great  world  be 
yond  his  window.  "What  fortunes  lie  with 
ye,  ye  lights  of  London  town?"  he  quoted, 
smiling.  And  they  heard  him  close  the  door 
of  his  bedroom,  and  lock  it  for  the  night. 

The  next  morning  he  bought  many  geraniums 
from  Prentiss  and  placed  them  along  the  broad 
cornice  that  stretched  across  the  front  of  the 
house  over  the  shop- window.  The  flowers  made 
a  band  of  scarlet  on  either  side  of  the  Lion  as 
brilliant  as  a  Tommy's  jacket. 

"I  am  trying  to  propitiate  the  British  Lion 
by  placing  flowers  before  his  altar,"  the  Ameri 
can  said  that  morning  to  a  visitor. 

"The  British  public,  you  mean,"  said  the  visi 
tor;  "they  are  each  likely  to  tear  you  to  pieces." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  that  the  pit  on  the  first 
night  of  a  bad  play  is  something  awful,"  hazarded 
the  American. 

149 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

"Wait  and  see,"  said  the  visitor. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  American,  meekly. 

Every  one  who  came  to  the  first  floor  front 
talked  about  a  play.  It  seemed  to  be  something 
of  great  moment  to  the  American.  It  was  only 
a  bundle  of  leaves  printed  in  red  and  black  inks 
and  bound  in  brown  paper  covers.  There  were 
two  of  them,  and  the  American  called  them  by 
different  names:  one  was  his  comedy  and  one 
was  his  tragedy. 

"They  are  both  likely  to  be  tragedies,"  the 
Lion  heard  one  of  the  visitors  say  to  another, 
as  they  drove  away  together.  "Our  young 
friend  takes  it  too  seriously." 

The  American  spent  most  of  his  time  by  his 
desk  at  the  window  writing  on  little  blue  pads 
and  tearing  up  what  he  wrote,  or  in  reading 
over  one  of  the  plays  to  himself  in  a  loud  voice. 
In  time  the  number  of  his  visitors  increased, 
and  to  some  of  these  he  would  read  his  play; 
and  after  they  had  left  him  he  was  either  de 
pressed  and  silent  or  excited  and  jubilant. 
The  Lion  could  always  tell  when  he  was  happy 
because  then  he  would  go  to  the  side  table  and 
pour  himself  out  a  drink  and  say,  "Here's  to 
me,"  but  when  he  was  depressed  he  would  stand 
holding  the  glass  in  his  hand,  and  finally  pour 
the  liquor  back  into  the  bottle  again  and  say, 
"What's  the  use  of  that?" 

150 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

After  he  had  been  in  London  a  month  he  wrote 
less  and  was  more  frequently  abroad,  sallying 
forth  in  beautiful  raiment,  and  coming  home 
by  daylight. 

And  he  gave  suppers,  too,  but  they  were  less 
noisy  than  the  Captain's  had  been,  and  the 
women  who  came  to  them  were  much  more 
beautiful,  and  their  voices  when  they  spoke 
were  sweet  and  low.  Sometimes  one  of  the 
women  sang,  and  the  men  sat  in  silence  while 
the  people  in  the  street  below  stopped  to  listen, 
and  would  say,  "Why,  that  is  So-and-So  sing 
ing,"  and  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  wondered 
how  they  could  know  who  it  was  when  they 
could  not  see  her. 

The  lodger's  visitors  came  to  see  him  at  all 
hours.  They  seemed  to  regard  his  rooms  as  a 
club,  where  they  could  always  come  for  a  bite 
to  eat  or  to  write  notes;  and  others  treated  it 
like  a  lawyer's  office  and  asked  advice  on  all 
manner  of  strange  subjects.  Sometimes  the 
visitor  wanted  to  know  whether  the  American 
thought  she  ought  to  take  £10  a  week  and  go 
on  tour,  or  stay  in  town  and  try  to  live  on  £8; 
or  whether  she  should  paint  landscapes  that 
would  not  sell,  or  race-horses  that  would;  or 
whether  Reggie  really  loved  her  and  whether 
she  really  loved  Reggie;  or  whether  the  new 
part  in  the  piece  at  the  Court  was  better  than 

151 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

the  old  part  at  Terry's,  and  wasn't  she  getting 
too  old  to  play  "ingenues"  anyway. 

The  lodger  seemed  to  be  a  general  adviser, 
and  smoked  and  listened  with  grave  considera 
tion,  and  the  Unicorn  thought  his  judgment 
was  most  sympathetic  and  sensible. 

Of  all  the  beautiful  ladies  who  came  to  call 
on  the  lodger  the  one  the  Unicorn  liked  the  best 
was  the  one  who  wanted  to  know  whether  she 
loved  Reggie  and  whether  Reggie  loved  her. 
She  discussed  this  so  interestingly  while  she 
consumed  tea  and  thin  slices  of  bread  that  the 
Unicorn  almost  lost  his  balance  in  leaning  for 
ward  to  listen.  Her  name  was  Marion  Caven 
dish,  and  it  was  written  over  many  photographs 
which  stood  in  silver  frames  in  the  lodger's 
rooms.  She  used  to  make  the  tea  herself, 
while  the  lodger  sat  and  smoked;  and  she  had 
a  fascinating  way  of  doubling  the  thin  slices  of 
bread  into  long  strips  and  nibbling  at  them  like 
a  mouse  at  a  piece  of  cheese.  She  had  wonder 
ful  little  teeth  and  Cupid's-bow  lips,  and  she 
had  a  fashion  of  lifting  her  veil  only  high  enough 
for  one  to  see  the  two  Cupid's-bow  lips.  When 
she  did  that  the  American  used  to  laugh,  at 
nothing  apparently,  and  say,  "Oh,  I  guess 
Reggie  loves  you  well  enough." 

"But  do  I  love  Reggie?"  she  would  ask, 
sadly,  with  her  teacup  held  poised  in  air. 

152 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

"I  am  sure  I  hope  not,"  the  lodger  would 
reply,  and  she  would  put  down  the  veil  quickly, 
as  one  would  drop  a  curtain  over  a  beautiful 
picture,  and  rise  with  great  dignity  and  say, 
"If  you  talk  like  that  I  shall  not  come  again." 

She  was  sure  that  if  she  could  only  get  some 
work  to  do  her  head  would  be  filled  with  more 
important  matters  than  whether  Reggie  loved 
her  or  not. 

"But  the  managers  seem  inclined  to  cut  their 
cavendish  very  fine  just  at  present,"  she  said. 
"  If  I  don't  get  a  part  soon,"  she  announced,  "  I 
shall  ask  Mitchell  to  put  me  down  on  the  list 
for  recitations  at  evening  parties." 

"That  seems  a  desperate  revenge,"  said  the 
American;  "and  besides,  I  don't  want  you  to 
get  a  part,  because  some  one  might  be  idiotic 
enough  to  take  my  comedy,  and  if  he  should, 
you  must  play  Nancy." 

"I  would  not  ask  for  any  salary  if  I  could 
play  Nancy'9  Miss  Cavendish  answered. 

They  spoke  of  a  great  many  things,  but  their 
talk  always  ended  by  her  saying  that  there 
must  be  some  one  with  sufficient  sense  to  see 
that  his  play  was  a  great  play,  and  by  his 
saying  that  none  but  she  must  play  Nancy. 

The  Lion  preferred  the  tall  girl  with  masses 
and  folds  of  brown  hair,  who  came  from  America 
to  paint  miniatures  of  the  British  aristocracy. 

153 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

Her  name  was  Helen  Cabot,  and  he  liked  her 
because  she  was  so  brave  and  fearless,  and  so 
determined  to  be  independent  of  every  one, 
even  of  the  lodger — especially  of  the  lodger, 
who,  it  appeared,  had  known  her  very  well 
at  home.  The  lodger,  they  gathered,  did  not 
wish  her  to  be  independent  of  him,  and  the 
two  Americans  had  many  arguments  and  dis 
putes  about  it,  but  she  always  said,  "It  does 
no  good,  Philip;  it  only  hurts  us  both  when 
you  talk  so.  I  care  for  nothing,  and  for  no  one 
but  my  art,  and,  poor  as  it  is,  it  means  every 
thing  to  me,  and  you  do  not,  and,  of  course, 
the  man  I  am  to  marry  must."  Then  Carroll 
would  talk,  walking  up  and  down,  and  looking 
very  fierce  and  determined,  and  telling  her  how 
he  loved  her  in  such  a  way  that  it  made  her 
look  even  more  proud  and  beautiful.  And  she 
would  say  more  gently,  "  It  is  very  fine  to  think 
that  any  one  can  care  for  me  like  that,  and  very 
helpful.  But  unless  I  cared  in  the  same  way 
it  would  be  wicked  of  me  to  marry  you,  and 
besides — "  She  would  add  very  quickly  to 
prevent  his  speaking  again — "I  don't  want  to 
marry  you  or  anybody,  and  I  never  shall.  I 
want  to  be  free  and  to  succeed  in  my  work,  just 
as  you  want  to  succeed  in  your  work.  So  please 
never  speak  of  this  again."  When  she  went 
away  the  lodger  used  to  sit  smoking  in  the  big 

154 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

arm-chair  and  beat  the  arms  with  his  hands, 
and  he  would  pace  up  and  down  the  room,  while 
his  work  would  lie  untouched  and  his  engage 
ments  pass  forgotten. 

Summer  came  and  London  was  deserted, 
dull,  and  dusty,  but  the  lodger  stayed  on  in 
Jermyn  Street.  Helen  Cabot  had  departed  on 
a  round  of  visits  to  country-houses  in  Scotland, 
where,  as  she  wrote  him,  she  was  painting  min 
iatures  of  her  hosts  and  studying  the  game  of 
golf.  Miss  Cavendish  divided  her  days  be 
tween  the  river  and  one  of  the  West  End  thea 
tres.  She  was  playing  a  small  part  in  a  farce- 
comedy. 

One  day  she  came  up  from  Cookham  earlier 
than  usual,  looking  very  beautiful  in  a  white 
boating-frock  and  a  straw  hat  with  a  Leander 
ribbon.  Her  hands  and  arms  were  hard  with 
dragging  a  punting-hole,  and  she  was  sunburnt 
and  happy,  and  hungry  for  tea. 

"Why  don't  you  come  down  to  Cookham  and 
get  out  of  this  heat?"  Miss  Cavendish  asked. 
"You  need  it;  you  look  ill." 

" I'd  like  to,  but  I  can't,"  said  Carroll.  "The 
fact  is,  I  paid  in  advance  for  these  rooms,  and 
if  I  lived  anywhere  else  I'd  be  losing  five  guineas 
a  week  on  them." 

Miss  Cavendish  regarded  him  severely.  She 
had  never  quite  mastered  his  American  humor. 

155 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

"But — five  guineas — why,  that's  nothing  to 
you,"  she  said.  Something  in  the  lodger's  face 
made  her  pause.  "You  don't  mean " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  the  lodger,  smiling.  "You 
see,  I  started  in  to  lay  siege  to  London  without 
sufficient  ammunition.  London  is  a  large  town, 
and  it  didn't  fall  as  quickly  as  I  thought  it 
would.  So  I  am  economizing.  Mr.  Lockhart's 
Coffee  Rooms  and  I  are  no  longer  strangers." 

Miss  Cavendish  put  down  her  cup  of  tea 
untasted  and  leaned  toward  him. 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  she  asked.  "For  how 
long?"  ' 

"Oh,  for  the  last  month,"  replied  the  lodger; 
"they  are  not  at  all  bad — clean  and  wholesome 
and  all  that." 

"But  the  suppers  you  gave  us,  and  this,"  she 
cried,  suddenly,  waving  her  hands  over  the 
pretty  tea-things,  "and  the  cake  and  muffins?" 

"My  friends,  at  least,"  said  Carroll,  "need 
not  go  to  Lockhart's." 

"And  the  Savoy?"  asked  Miss  Cavendish, 
mournfully  shaking  her  head. 

"A  dream  of  the  past,"  said  Carroll,  waving 
his  pipe  through  the  smoke.  "Gatti's?  Yes, 
on  special  occasions;  but  for  necessity  the 
Chancellor's,  where  one  gets  a  piece  of  the 
prime  roast  beef  of  Old  England,  from  Chi 
cago,  and  potatoes  for  ninepence — a  pot  of 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

bitter  twopence-halfpenny,  and  a  penny  for  the 
waiter.  It's  most  amusing  on  the  whole.  I 
am  learning  a  little  about  London,  and  some 
things  about  myself.  They  are  both  most 
interesting  subjects." 

"Well,  I  don't  like  it,"  Miss  Cavendish  de 
clared,  helplessly.  "  When  I  think  of  those  sup 
pers  and  the  flowers,  I  feel — I  feel  like  a  robber." 

"Don't,"  begged  Carroll.  "I  am  really  the 
most  happy  of  men — that  is,  as  the  chap  says 
in  the  play,  I  would  be  if  I  wasn't  so  damned 
miserable.  But  I  owe  no  man  a  penny  and  I 
have  assets — I  have  £80  to  last  me  through  the 
winter  and  two  marvellous  plays;  and  I  love, 
next  to  yourself,  the  most  wonderful  woman 
God  ever  made.  That's  enough." 

"  But  I  thought  you  made  such  a  lot  of  money 
by  writing?"  asked  Miss  Cavendish. 

"I  do — that  is,  I  could,"  answered  Carroll, 
"if  I  wrote  the  things  that  sell;  but  I  keep  on 
writing  plays  that  won't." 

"And  such  plays!"  exclaimed  Marion, 
warmly;  "and  to  think  that  they  are  going 
begging!"  She  continued,  indignantly,  "I  can't 
imagine  what  the  managers  do  want." 

"I  know  what  they  don't  want,"  said  the 
American.  Miss  Cavendish  drummed  impa 
tiently  on  the  tea-tray. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  abject  about  it," 
157 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

she  said.  "  If  I  were  a  man  I'd  make  them  take 
those  plays." 

"How?"  asked  the  American;  "with  a  gun?" 

"Well,  I'd  keep  at  it  until  they  read  them," 
declared  Marion.  "I'd  sit  on  their  front  steps 
all  night  and  I'd  follow  them  in  cabs,  and  I'd 
lie  in  wait  for  them  at  the  stage-door.  I'd  just 
make  them  take  them." 

Carroll  sighed  and  stared  at  the  ceiling.  "I 
guess  I'll  give  up  and  go  home,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  do,  run  away  before  you  are  beaten," 
said  Miss  Cavendish,  scornfully.  "Why,  you 
can't  go  now.  Everybody  will  be  back  in  town 
soon,  and  there  are  a  lot  of  new  plays  coming 
on,  and  some  of  them  are  sure  to  be  failures, 
and  that's  our  chance.  You  rush  in  with  your 
piece,  and  somebody  may  take  it  sooner  than 
close  the  theatre." 

"  I'm  thinking  of  closing  the  theatre  myself," 
said  Carroll.  "What's  the  use  of  my  hanging 
on  here?"  he  exclaimed.  "It  distresses  Helen 
to  know  I  am  in  London,  feeling  about  her  as  I 
do — and  the  Lord  only  knows  how  it  distresses 
me.  And,  maybe,  if  I  went  away,"  he  said, 
consciously,  "she  might  miss  me.  She  might 
see  the  difference." 

Miss  Cavendish  held  herself  erect  and  pressed 
her  lips  together  with  a  severe  smile.  "If 
Helen  Cabot  doesn't  see  the  difference  between 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

you  and  the  other  men  she  knows  now,"  she 
said,  "  I  doubt  if  she  ever  will.  Besides — "  she 
continued,  and  then  hesitated. 

"Well,  go  on,"  urged  Carroll. 

"Well,  I  was  only  going  to  say,"  she  explained, 
"that  leaving  the  girl  alone  never  did  the  man 
any  good  unless  he  left  her  alone  willingly.  If 
she's  sure  he  still  cares,  it's  just  the  same  to  her 
where  he  is.  He  might  as  well  stay  on  in  Lon 
don  as  go  to  South  Africa.  It  won't  help  him 
any.  The  difference  comes  when  she  finds  he 
has  stopped  caring.  Why,  look  at  Reggie. 
He  tried  that.  He  went  away  for  ever  so  long, 
but  he  kept  writing  me  from  wherever  he  went, 
so  that  he  was  perfectly  miserable — and  I  went 
on  enjoying  myself.  Then  when  he  came  back, 
he  tried  going  about  with  his  old  friends  again. 
He  used  to  come  to  the  theatre  with  them — 
oh,  with  such  nice  girls ! — but  he  always  stood 
in  the  back  of  the  box  and  yawned  and  scowled 
— so  I  knew.  And,  anyway,  he'd  always  spoil 
it  all  by  leaving  them  and  waiting  at  the  stage 
entrance  for  me.  But  one  day  he  got  tired  of 
the  way  I  treated  him  and  went  off  on  a  bicycle- 
tour  with  Lady  Hacksher's  girls  and  some  men 
from  his  regiment,  and  he  was  gone  three  weeks, 
and  never  sent  me  even  a  line;  and  I  got  so 
scared;  I  couldn't  sleep,  and  I  stood  it  for  three 
days  more,  and  then  I  wired  him  to  come  back 

159 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

or  I'd  jump  off  London  Bridge;  and  he  came 
back  that  very  night  from  Edinburgh  on  the 
express,  and  I  was  so  glad  to  see  him  that  I  got 
confused,  and  in  the  general  excitement  I  prom 
ised  to  marry  him,  so  that's  how  it  was  with 
us." 

"Yes,"  said  the  American,  without  enthu 
siasm;  "but  then  I  still  care,  and  Helen  knows 
I  care." 

"Doesn't  she  ever  fancy  that  you  might  care 
for  some  one  else?  You  have  a  lot  of  friends, 
you  know." 

"Yes,  but  she  knows  they  are  just  that — 
friends,"  said  the  American. 

Miss  Cavendish  stood  up  to  go,  and  arranged 
her  veil  before  the  mirror  above  the  fireplace. 

"I  come  here  very  often  to  tea,"  she  said. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Carroll.  He 
was  at  the  open  window,  looking  down  into  the 
street  for  a  cab. 

"Well,  no  one  knows  I  am  engaged  to  Reg 
gie,"  continued  Miss  Cavendish,  "except  you 
and  Reggie,  and  he  isn't  so  sure.  She  doesn't 
know  it." 

"Well?"  said  Carroll. 

Miss  Cavendish  smiled  a  mischievous,  kindly 
smile  at  him  from  the  mirror. 

"Well?"  she  repeated,  mockingly.  Carroll 
stared  at  her  and  laughed.  After  a  pause  he 

1 60 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

said:  "It's  like  a  plot  in  a  comedy.  But  I'm 
afraid  I'm  too  serious  for  play-acting." 

"Yes,  it  is  serious,"  said  Miss  Cavendish. 
She  seated  herself  .again  and  regarded  the 
American  thoughtfully.  "You  are  too  good  a 
man  to  be  treated  the  way  that  girl  is  treating 
you,  and  no  one  knows  it  better  than  she  does. 
She'll  change  in  time,  but  just  now  she  thinks 
she  wants  to  be  independent.  She's  in  love 
with  this  picture-painting  idea,  and  with  the 
people  she  meets.  It's  all  new  to  her — the  fuss 
they  make  over  her  and  the  titles,  and  the  way 
she  is  asked  about.  We  know  she  can't  paint. 
We  know  they  only  give  her  commissions  be 
cause  she's  so  young  and  pretty,  and  American. 
She  amuses  them,  that's  all.  Well,  that  cannot 
last;  she'll  find  it  out.  She's  too  clever  a  girl, 
and  she  is  too  fine  a  girl  to  be  content  with  that 
long.  Then — then  she'll  come  back  to  you. 
She  feels  now  that  she  has  both  you  and  the 
others,  and  she's  making  you  wait;  so  wait 
and  be  cheerful.  She's  worth  waiting  for;  she's 
young,  that's  all.  She'll  see  the  difference  in 
time.  But,  in  the  meanwhile,  it  would  hurry 
matters  a  bit  if  she  thought  she  had  to  choose 
between  the  new  friends  and  you." 

"She  could  still  keep  her  friends  and  marry 
me,"  said  Carroll;  "I  have  told  her  that  a 
hundred  times.  She  could  still  paint  minia- 

161 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

tures  and  marry  me.  But  she  won't  marry 
me." 

"She  won't  marry  you  because  she  knows  she 
can  whenever  she  wants  to,"  cried  Marion. 
"Can't  you  see  that?  But  if  she  thought  you 
were  going  to  marry  some  one  else  now?" 

"She  would  be  the  first  to  congratulate  me," 
said  Carroll.  He  rose  and  walked  to  the  fire 
place,  where  he  leaned  with  his  arm  on  the 
mantel.  There  was  a  photograph  of  Helen 
Cabot  near  his  hand,  and  he  turned  this  toward 
him  and  stood  for  some  time  staring  at  it.  "  My 
dear  Marion,"  he  said  at  last,  "I've  known 
Helen  ever  since  she  was  as  young  as  that. 
Every  year  I've  loved  her  more,  and  found  new 
things  in  her  to  care  for;  now  I  love  her  more 
than  any  other  man  ever  loved  any  other 
woman." 

Miss  Cavendish  shook  her  head  sympathet 
ically. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said;  "that's  the  way 
Reggie  loves  me,  too." 

Carroll  went  on  as  though  he  had  not  heard 
her. 

"There's  a  bench  in  St.  James's  Park,"  he 
said,  "where  we  used  to  sit  when  she  first  came 
here,  when  she  didn't  know  so  many  people. 
We  used  to  go  there  in  the  morning  and  throw 
penny  buns  to  the  ducks.  That's  been  my 

162 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

amusement  this  summer  since  you've  all  been 
away — sitting  on  that  bench,  feeding  penny 
buns  to  the  silly  ducks — especially  the  black 
one,  the  one  she  used  to  like  best.  And  I  make 
pilgrimages  to  all  the  other  places  we  ever 
visited  together,  and  try  to  pretend  she  is  with 
me.  And  I  support  the  crossing  sweeper  at 
Lansdowne  Passage  because  she  once  said  she 
felt  sorry  for  him.  I  do  all  the  other  absurd 
things  that  a  man  in  love  tortures  himself  by 
doing.  But  to  what  end?  She  knows  how  I 
care,  and  yet  she  won't  see  why  we  can't  go  on 
being  friends  as  we  once  were.  What's  the  use 
of  it  all?" 

"She  is  young,  I  tell  you,"  repeated  Miss 
Cavendish,  "and  she's  too  sure  of  you.  You've 
told  her  you  care;  now  try  making  her  think 
you  don't  care." 

Carroll  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

"I  will  not  stoop  to  such  tricks  and  pretense, 
Marion,"  he  cried,  impatiently.  "All  I  have 
is  my  love  for  her;  if  I  have  to  cheat  and  to 
trap  her  into  caring,  the  whole  thing  would  be 
degraded." 

Miss  Cavendish  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
walked  to  the  door.  "Such  amateurs!"  she 
exclaimed,  and  banged  the  door  after  her. 

Carroll  never  quite  knew  how  he  had  come  to 
make  a  confidante  of  Miss  Cavendish.  Helen 

163 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

and  he  had  met  her  when  they  first  arrived  in 
London,  and  as  she  had  acted  for  a  season  in 
the  United  States,  she  adopted  the  two  Ameri 
cans — and  told  Helen  where  to  go  for  boots  and 
hats,  and  advised  Carroll  about  placing  his 
plays.  Helen  soon  made  other  friends,  and 
deserted  the  artists  with  whom  her  work  had 
first  thrown  her.  She  seemed  to  prefer  the 
society  of  the  people  who  bought  her  paintings, 
and  who  admired  and  made  much  of  the  painter. 
As  she  was  very  beautiful  and  at  an  age  when 
she  enjoyed  everything  in  life  keenly  and 
eagerly,  to  give  her  pleasure  was  in  itself  a 
distinct  pleasure;  and  the  worldly  tired  people 
she  met  were  considering  their  own  entertain 
ment  quite  as  much  as  hers  when  they  asked 
her  to  their  dinners  and  dances,  or  to  spend  a 
week  with  them  in  the  country.  In  her  way, 
she  was  as  independent  as  was  Carroll  in  his, 
and  as  she  was  not  in  love,  as  he  was,  her  life 
was  not  narrowed  down  to  but  one  ideal.  But 
she  was  not  so  young  as  to  consider  herself 
infallible,  and  she  had  one  excellent  friend  on 
whom  she  was  dependent  for  advice  and  to 
whose  directions  she  submitted  implicitly.  This 
was  Lady  Gower,  the  only  person  to  whom  Helen 
had  spoken  of  Carroll  and  of  his  great  feeling 
for  her.  Lady  Gower,  immediately  after  her 
marriage,  had  been  a  conspicuous  and  brilliant 

164 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

figure  in  that  set  in  London  which  works 
eighteen  hours  a  day  to  keep  itself  amused,  but 
after  the  death  of  her  husband  she  had  disap 
peared  into  the  country  as  completely  as  though 
she  had  entered  a  convent,  and  after  several 
years  had  then  re-entered  the  world  as  a  pro 
fessional  philanthropist.  Her  name  was  now 
associated  entirely  with  Women's  Leagues,  with 
committees  that  presented  petitions  to  Parlia 
ment,  and  with  public  meetings,  at  which  she 
spoke  with  marvellous  ease  and  effect.  Her 
old  friends  said  she  had  taken  up  this  new  pose 
as  an  outlet  for  her  nervous  energies,  and  as  an 
effort  to  forget  the  man  who  alone  had  made 
life  serious  to  her.  Others  knew  her  as  an 
earnest  woman,  acting  honestly  for  what  she 
thought  was  right.  Her  success,  all  admitted, 
was  due  to  her  knowledge  of  the  world  and  to 
her  sense  of  humor,  which  taught  her  with  whom 
to  use  her  wealth  and  position,  and  when  to 
demand  what  she  wanted  solely  on  the  ground 
that  the  cause  was  just. 

She  had  taken  more  than  a  fancy  for  Helen, 
and  the  position  of  the  beautiful,  motherless 
girl  had  appealed  to  her  as  one  filled  with 
dangers.  When  she  grew  to  know  Helen  better, 
she  recognized  that  these  fears  were  quite  un 
necessary,  and  as  she  saw  more  of  her  she 
learned  to  care  for  her  deeply.  Helen  had  told 

165 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

her  much  of  Carroll  and  of  his  double  purpose 
in  coming  to  London;  of  his  brilliant  work  and 
his  lack  of  success  in  having  it  recognized;  and 
of  his  great  and  loyal  devotion  to  her,  and  of 
his  lack  of  success,  not  in  having  that  recog 
nized,  but  in  her  own  inability  to  return  it. 
Helen  was  proud  that  she  had  been  able  to  make 
Carroll  care  for  her  as  he  did,  and  that  there 
was  anything  about  her  which  could  inspire  a 
man  whom  she  admired  so  much  to  believe  in 
her  so  absolutely  and  for  so  long  a  time.  But 
what  convinced  her  that  the  outcome  for  which 
he  hoped  was  impossible,  was  the  very  fact  that 
she  could  admire  him,  and  see  how  fine  and 
unselfish  his  love  for  her  was,  and  yet  remain 
untouched  by  it. 

She  had  been  telling  Lady  Gower  one  day  of 
the  care  he  had  taken  of  her  ever  since  she  was 
fourteen  years  of  age,  and  had  quoted  some  of 
the  friendly  and  loverlike  acts  he  had  performed 
in  her  service,  until  one  day  they  had  both 
found  out  that  his  attitude  of  the  elder  brother 
was  no  longer  possible,  and  that  he  loved  her 
in  the  old  and  only  way.  Lady  Gower  looked 
at  her  rather  doubtfully  and  smiled. 

"I  wish  you  would  bring  him  to  see  me, 
Helen,"  she  said;  "I  think  I  should  like  your 
friend  very  much.  From  what  you  tell  me  of 
him  I  doubt  if  you  will  find  many  such  men 

166 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

waiting  for  you  in  this  country.  Our  men 
marry  for  reasons  of  property,  or  they  love 
blindly,  and  are  exacting  and  selfish  before  and 
after  they  are  married.  I  know,  because  so 
many  women  came  to  me  when  my  husband 
was  alive  to  ask  how  it  was  that  I  continued  so 
happy  in  my  married  life." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  marry  any  one,"  Helen 
remonstrated,  gently.  "American  girls  are  not 
always  thinking  only  of  getting  married." 

"What  I  meant  was  this,"  said  Lady  Gower: 
"that,  in  my  experience,  I  have  heard  of  but 
few  men  who  care  in  the  way  this  young  man 
seems  to  care  for  you.  You  say  you  do  not 
love  him;  but  if  he  had  wanted  to  gain  my 
interest,  he  could  not  have  pleaded  his  cause 
better  than  you  have  done.  He  seems  to  see 
your  faults  and  yet  love  you  still,  in  spite  of 
them — or  on  account  of  them.  And  I  like  the 
things  he  does  for  you.  I  like,  for  instance,  his 
sending  you  the  book  of  the  moment  every 
week  for  two  years.  That  shows  a  most  un 
swerving  spirit  of  devotion.  And  the  story  of 
the  broken  bridge  in  the  woods  is  a  wonderful 
story.  If  I  were  a  young  girl,  I  could  love  a 
man  for  that  alone.  It  was  a  beautiful  thing 
to  do." 

Helen  sat  with  her  chin  on  her  hands,  deeply 
considering  this  new  point  of  view. 

167 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

"I  thought  it  very  foolish  of  him/*  she  con 
fessed,  questioningly,  "to  take  such  a  risk  for 
such  a  little  thing." 

Lady  Gower  smiled  down  at  her  from  the 
height  of  her  many  years. 

"Wait,"  she  said,  dryly,  "you  are  very  young 
now — and  very  rich;  every  one  is  crowding  to 
give  you  pleasure,  to  show  his  admiration. 
You  are  a  very  fortunate  girl.  But  later,  these 
things  which  some  man  has  done  because  he 
loved  you,  and  which  you  call  foolish,  will 
grow  large  in  your  life,  and  shine  out  strongly, 
and  when  you  are  discouraged  and  alone,  you 
will  take  them  out,  and  the  memory  of  them  will 
make  you  proud  and  happy.  They  are  the 
honors  which  women  wear  in  secret." 

Helen  came  back  to  town  in  September,  and 
for  the  first  few  days  was  so  occupied  in  re 
furnishing  her  studio  and  in  visiting  the  shops 
that  she  neglected  to  send  Carroll  word  of  her 
return.  When  she  found  that  a  whole  week 
had  passed  without  her  having  made  any  effort 
to  see  him,  and  appreciated  how  the  fact  would 
hurt  her  friend,  she  was  filled  with  remorse, 
and  drove  at  once  in  great  haste  to  Jermyn 
Street,  to  announce  her  return  in  person.  On 
the  way  she  decided  that  she  would  soften  the 
blow  of  her  week  of  neglect  by  asking  him  to 
take  her  out  to  luncheon.  This  privilege  she 

1 68 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

had  once  or  twice  accorded  him,  and  she  felt 
that  the  pleasure  these  excursions  gave  Carroll 
were  worth  the  consternation  they  caused  to 
Lady  Gower. 

The  servant  was  uncertain  whether  Mr.  Car 
roll  was  at  home  or  not,  but  Helen  was  too 
intent  upon  making  restitution  to  wait  for  the 
fact  to  be  determined,  and,  running  up  the 
stairs,  knocked  sharply  at  the  door  of  his  study. 

A  voice  bade  her  come  in,  and  she  entered, 
radiant  and  smiling  her  welcome.  But  Carroll 
was  not  there  to  receive  it,  and,  instead,  Marion 
Cavendish  looked  up  at  her  from  his  desk, 
where  she  was  busily  writing.  Helen  paused 
with  a  surprised  laugh,  but  Marion  sprang 
up  and  hailed  her  gladly.  They  met  half-way 
across  the  room  and  kissed  each  other  with 
the  most  friendly  feeling. 

Philip  was  out,  Marion  said,  and  she  had  just 
stepped  in  for  a  moment  to  write  him  a  note. 
If  Helen  would  excuse  her,  she  would  finish  it, 
as  she  was  late  for  rehearsal. 

But  she  asked  over  her  shoulder,  with  great 
interest,  if  Helen  had  passed  a  pleasant  summer. 
She  thought  she  had  never  seen  her  looking 
so  well.  Helen  thought  Miss  Cavendish  herself 
was  looking  very  well  also,  but  Marion  said  no; 
that  she  was  too  sunburnt,  she  would  not  be 
able  to  wear  a  dinner-dress  for  a  month.  There 

169 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

was  a  pause  while  Marion's  quill  scratched 
violently  across  Carroll's  note-paper.  Helen 
felt  that  in  some  way  she  was  being  treated  as 
an  intruder;  or  worse,  as  a  guest.  She  did  not 
sit  down,  it  seemed  impossible  to  do  so,  but  she 
moved  uncertainly  about  the  room.  She  noted 
that  there  were  many  changes,  it  seemed  more 
bare  and  empty;  her  picture  was  still  on  the 
writing-desk,  but  there  were  at  least  six  new 
photographs  of  Marion.  Marion  herself  had 
brought  them  to  the  room  that  morning,  and 
had  carefully  arranged  them  in  conspicuous 
places.  But  Helen  could  not  know  that.  She 
thought  there  was  an  unnecessary  amount  of 
writing  scribbled  over  the  face  of  each. 

Marion  addressed  her  letter  and  wrote  "Im 
mediate"  across  the  envelope,  and  placed  it 
before  the  clock  on  the  mantel-shelf.  "You 
will  find  Philip  looking  very  badly,"  she  said, 
as  she  pulled  on  her  gloves.  "He  has  been  in 
town  all  summer,  working  very  hard — he  has 
had  no  holiday  at  all.  I  don't  think  he's  well. 
I  have  been  a  great  deal  worried  about  him," 
she  added.  Her  face  was  bent  over  the  buttons 
of  her  glove,  and  when  she  raised  her  blue  eyes 
to  Helen  they  were  filled  with  serious  concern. 

"Really,"  Helen  stammered,  "I— I  didn't 
know — in  his  letters  he  seemed  very  cheerful." 

Marion  shook  her  head  and  turned  and  stood 
170 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

looking  thoughtfully  out  of  the  window.  "  He's 
in  a  very  hard  place,"  she  began,  abruptly,  and 
then  stopped  as  though  she  had  thought  better 
of  what  she  intended  to  say.  Helen  tried  to 
ask  her  to  go  on,  but  could  not  bring  herself  to 
do  so.  She  wanted  to  get  away. 

"I    tell    him   he    ought   to    leave    London," 
Marion  began  again;    "he  needs  a  change  and 


a  rest." 


"I  should  think  he  might,"  Helen  agreed, 
"after  three  months  of  this  heat.  He  wrote 
me  he  intended  going  to  Herne  Bay  or  over  to 
Ostend." 

"  Yes,  he  had  meant  to  go,"  Marion  answered. 
She  spoke  with  the  air  of  one  who  possessed  the 
most  intimate  knowledge  of  Carroll's  movements 
and  plans,  and  change  of  plans.  "But  he 
couldn't,"  she  added.  "He  couldn't  afford  it. 
Helen,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  other  girl, 
dramatically,  "do  you  know — I  believe  that 
Philip  is  very  poor." 

Miss  Cabot  exclaimed,  incredulously,  "Poor !" 
She  laughed.  "Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  he  has  no  money,"  Marion 
answered,  sharply.  "These  rooms  represent 
nothing.  He  only  keeps  them  on  because  he 
paid  for  them  in  advance.  He's  been  living  on 
three  shillings  a  day.  That's  poor  for  him. 
He  takes  his  meals  at  cabmen's  shelters  and 

171 


THE  LION  AND  THE   UNICORN 

at  Lockhart's,  and  he's  been  doing  so  for  a 
month." 

Helen  recalled  with  a  guilty  thrill  the  receipt 
of  certain  boxes  of  La  France  roses — cut  long, 
in  the  American  fashion — which  had  arrived 
within  the  last  month  at  various  country- 
houses.  She  felt  indignant  at  herself,  and 
miserable.  Her  indignation  was  largely  due  to 
the  recollection  that  she  had  given  these  flowers 
to  her  hostess  to  decorate  the  dinner-table. 

She  hated  to  ask  this  girl  of  things  which  she 
should  have  known  better  than  any  one  else. 
But  she  forced  herself  to  do  it.  She  felt  she 
must  know  certainly  and  at  once. 

"How  do  you  know  this?"  she  asked.  "Are 
you  sure  there  is  no  mistake?" 

A 

"He  told  me  himself,"  said  Marion,  "when 
he  talked  of  letting  the  plays  go  and  returning 
to  America.  He  said  he  must  go  back;  that 
his  money  was  gone." 

"He  is  gone  to  America !"  Helen  said,  blankly. 

"No,  he  wanted  to  go,  but  I  wouldn't  let 
him,"  Marion  went  on.  "  I  told  him  that  some 
one  might  take  his  play  any  day.  And  this 
third  one  he  has  written,  the  one  he  finished 
this  summer  in  town,  is  the  best  of  all,  I  think. 
It's  a  love-story.  It's  quite  beautiful."  She 
turned  and  arranged  her  veil  at  the  glass,  and 
as  she  did  so,  her  eyes  fell  on  the  photographs 

172 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

of  herself  scattered  over  the  mantel-piece,  and 
she  smiled  slightly.  But  Helen  did  not  see 
her — she  was  sitting  down  now,  pulling  at  the 
books  on  the  table.  She  was  confused  and  dis 
turbed  by  emotions  which  were  quite  strange 
to  her,  and  when  Marion  bade  her  good-by  she 
hardly  noticed  her  departure.  What  impressed 
her  most  of  all  in  what  Marion  had  told  her 
was,  she  was  surprised  to  find,  that  Philip  was 
going  away.  That  she  herself  had  frequently 
urged  him  to  do  so,  for  his  own  peace  of  mind, 
seemed  now  of  no  consequence.  Now  that  he 
seriously  contemplated  it,  she  recognized  that 
his  absence  meant  to  her  a  change  in  every 
thing.  She  felt  for  the  first  time  the  peculiar 
place  he  held  in  her  life.  Even  if  she  had  seen 
him  but  seldom,  the  fact  that  he  was  within 
call  had  been  more  of  a  comfort  and  a  necessity 
to  her  than  she  understood. 

That  he  was  poor,  concerned  her  chiefly  be 
cause  she  knew  that,  although  this  condition 
could  only  be  but  temporary,  it  would  distress 
him  not  to  have  his  friends  around  him,  and  to 
entertain  them  as  he  had  been  used  to  do. 
She  wondered  eagerly  if  she  might  offer  to  help 
him,  but  a  second  thought  assured  her  that, 
for  a  man,  that  sort  of  help  from  a  woman  was 
impossible. 

She  resented  the  fact  that  Marion  was  deep 

173 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

in  his  confidence;  that  it  was  Marion  who  had 
told  her  of  his  changed  condition  and  of  his 
plans.  It  annoyed  her  so  acutely  that  she 
could  not  remain  in  the  room  where  she  had 
seen  her  so  complacently  in  possession.  And 
after  leaving  a  brief  note  for  Philip,  she  went 
away.  She  stopped  a  hansom  at  the  door, 
and  told  the  man  to  drive  along  the  Embank 
ment — she  wanted  to  be  quite  alone,  and  she 
felt  she  could  see  no  one  until  she  had  thought 
it  all  out,  and  had  analyzed  the  new  feelings. 

So  for  several  hours  she  drove  slowly  up  and 
down,  sunk  far  back  in  the  cushions  of  the  cab, 
and  staring  with  unseeing  eyes  at  the  white, 
enamelled  tariff  and  the  black  dash-board. 

She  assured  herself  that  she  was  not  jealous 
of  Marion,  because,  in  order  to  be  jealous,  she 
first  would  have  to  care  for  Philip  in  the  very 
way  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  do. 

She  decided  that  his  interest  in  Marion  hurt 
her,  because  it  showed  that  Philip  was  not 
capable  of  remaining  true  to  the  one  ideal  of 
his  life.  She  was  sure  that  this  explained  her 
feelings — she  was  disappointed  that  he  had  not 
kept  up  to  his  own  standard;  that  he  was  weak 
enough  to  turn  aside  from  it  for  the  first  pretty 
pair  of  eyes.  But  she  was  too  honest  and  too 
just  to  accept  that  diagnosis  of  her  feelings  as 
final — she  knew  there  had  been  many  pairs  of 

174 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

eyes  in  America  and  in  London,  and  that 
though  Philip  had  seen  them,  he  had  not  an 
swered  them  when  they  spoke.  No,  she  con 
fessed  frankly,  she  was  hurt  with  herself  for 
neglecting  her  old  friend  so  selfishly  and  for  so 
long  a  time;  his  love  gave  him  claims  on  her 
consideration,  at  least,  and  she  had  forgotten 
that  and  him,  and  had  run  after  strange  gods 
and  allowed  others  to  come  in  and  take  her 
place,  and  to  give  him  the  sympathy  and  help 
which  she  should  have  been  the  first  to  offer, 
and  which  would  have  counted  more  when 
coming  from  her  than  from  any  one  else.  She 
determined  to  make  amends  at  once  for  her 
thoughtlessness  and  selfishness,  and  her  brain 
was  pleasantly  occupied  with  plans  and  acts  of 
kindness.  It  was  a  new  entertainment,  and  she 
found  she  delighted  in  it.  She  directed  the  cab 
man  to  go  to  Solomons's,  and  from  there  sent 
Philip  a  bunch  of  flowers  and  a  line  saying  that 
on  the  following  day  she  was  coming  to  take 
tea  with  him.  She  had  a  guilty  feeling  that 
he  might  consider  her  friendly  advances  more 
seriously  than  she  meant  them,  but  it  was  her 
pleasure  to  be  reckless:  her  feelings  were  run 
ning  riotously,  and  the  sensation  was  so  new 
that  she  refused  to  be  circumspect  or  to  con 
sider  consequences.  Who  could  tell,  she  asked 
herself  with  a  quick,  frightened  gasp,  but  that, 

175 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

after  all,  it  might  be  that  she  was  learning  to 
care?  From  Solomons's  she  bade  the  man 
drive  to  the  shop  in  Cranbourne  Street  where 
she  was  accustomed  to  purchase  the  materials 
she  used  in  painting,  and  Fate,  which  uses 
strange  agents  to  work  out  its  ends,  so  directed 
it  that  the  cabman  stopped  a  few  doors  below 
this  shop,  and  opposite  one  where  jewelry  and 
other  personal  effects  were  bought  and  sold. 
At  any  other  time,  or  had  she  been  in  any  other 
mood,  what  followed  might  not  have  occurred, 
but  Fate,  in  the  person  of  the  cabman,  arranged 
it  so  that  the  hour  and  the  opportunity  came 
together. 

There  were  some  old  mezzotints  in  the  win 
dow  of  the  loan-shop,  a  string  of  coins  and 
medals,  a  row  of  new  French  posters;  and  far 
down  to  the  front  a  tray  filled  with  gold  and 
silver  cigarette-cases  and  watches  and  rings. 
It  occurred  to  Helen,  who  Was  still  bent  on 
making  restitution  for  her  neglect,  that  a 
cigarette-case  would  be  more  appropriate  for  a 
man  than  flowers,  and  more  lasting.  And  she 
scanned  the  contents  of  the  window  with  the 
eye  of  one  who  now  saw  in  everything  only 
something  which  might  give  Philip  pleasure. 
The  two  objects  of  value  in  the  tray  upon  which 
her  eyes  first  fell  were  the  gold  seal-ring  with 
which  Philip  had  sealed  his  letters  to  her,  and, 

176 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

lying  next  to  it,  his  gold  watch!  There  was 
something  almost  human  in  the  way  the  ring 
and  watch  spoke  to  her  from  the  past — in  the 
way  they  appealed  to  her  to  rescue  them  from 
the  surroundings  to  which  they  had  been 
abandoned.  She  did  not  know  what  she  meant 
to  do  with  them  nor  how  she  could  return 
them  to  Philip;  but  there  was  no  question  of 
doubt  in  her  manner  as  she  swept  with  a  rush 
into  the  shop.  There  was  no  attempt,  either, 
at  bargaining  in  the  way  in  which  she  pointed 
out  to  the  young  woman  behind  the  counter  the 
particular  ring  and  watch  she  wanted.  They 
had  not  been  left  as  collateral,  the  young  woman 
said;  they  had  been  sold  outright. 

"Then  any  one  can  buy  them?"  Helen  asked, 
eagerly.  "They  are  for  sale  to  the  public — to 
any  one?" 

The  young  woman  made  note  of  the  cus 
tomer's  eagerness,  but  with  an  unmoved  coun 
tenance. 

"Yes,  miss,  they,  are  for  sale.  The  ring  is 
four  pounds  and  the  watch  twenty-five." 

"Twenty-nine  pounds!"  Helen  gasped. 

That  was  more  money  than  she  had  in  the 
world,  but  the  fact  did  not  distress  her,  for  she 
had  a  true  artistic  disregard  for  ready  money, 
and  the  absence  of  it  had  never  disturbed  her. 
But  now  it  assumed  a  sudden  and  alarming 

177 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

value.  She  had  ten  pounds  in  her  purse  and 
ten  pounds  at  her  studio — these  were  just  enough 
to  pay  for  a  quarter's  rent  and  the  rates,  and 
there  was  a  hat  and  cloak  in  Bond  Street  which 
she  certainly  must  have.  Her  only  assets  con 
sisted  of  the  possibility  that  some  one  might  soon 
order  a  miniature,  and  to  her  mind  that  was 
sufficient.  Some  one  always  had  ordered  a  min 
iature,  and  there  was  no  reasonable  doubt  but 
that  some  one  would  do  it  again.  For  a  moment 
she  questioned  if  it  would  not  be  sufficient  if 
she  bought  the  ring  and  allowed  the  watch  to 
remain.  But  she  recognized  that  the  ring 
meant  more  to  her  than  the  watch,  while  the  lat 
ter,  as  an  old  heirloom  which  had  been  passed 
down  to  him  from  a  great-grandfather,  meant 
more  to  Philip.  It  was  for  Philip  she  was 
doing  this,  she  reminded  herself.  She  stood 
holding  his  possessions,  one  in  each  hand,  and 
looking  at  the  young  woman  blankly.  She  had 
no  doubt  in  her  mind  that  at  least  part  of  the 
money  he  had  received  for  them  had  paid  for 
the  flowers  he  had  sent  to  her  in  Scotland. 
The  certainty  of  this  left  her  no  choice.  She 
laid  the  ring  and  watch  down  and  pulled  the 
only  ring  she  possessed  from  her  own  finger. 
It  was  a  gift  from  Lady  Gower.  She  had  no 
doubt  that  it  was  of  great  value. 

"Can  you  lend  me  some  money  on  that?" 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

she  asked.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  con 
ducted  a  business  transaction  of  this  nature, 
and  she  felt  as  though  she  were  engaging  in  a 
burglary. 

"We  don't  lend  money,  miss,"  the  girl  said, 
"we  buy  outright.  I  can  give  you  twenty- 
eight  shillings  for  this,"  she  added. 

"Twenty-eight  shillings!"  Helen  gasped. 
"Why,  it  is  worth — oh,  ever  so  much  more 
than  that!" 

"That  is  all  it  is  worth  to  us,"  the  girl  an 
swered.  She  regarded  the  ring  indifferently  and 
laid  it  away  from  her  on  the  counter.  The 
action  was  final. 

Helen's  hands  rose  slowly  to  her  breast, 
where  a  pretty  watch  dangled  from  a  bow- 
knot  of  crushed  diamonds.  It  was  her  only 
possession,  and  she  was  very  fond  of  it.  It 
also  was  the  gift  of  one  of  the  several  great 
ladies  who  had  adopted  her  since  her  residence 
in  London.  Helen  had  painted  a  miniature  of 
this  particular  great  lady  which  had  looked  so 
beautiful  that  the  pleasure  which  the  original 
of  the  portrait  derived  from  the  thought  that 
she  still  really  looked  as  she  did  in  the  minia 
ture  was  worth  more  to  her  than  many  diamonds. 

But  it  was  different  with  Helen,  and  no  one 
could  count  what  it  cost  her  to  tear  away  her 
one  proud  possession. 

179 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

"What  will  you  give  me  for  this?"  she  asked, 
defiantly. 

The  girl's  eyes  showed  greater  interest.  "I 
can  give  you  twenty  pounds  for  that,"  she  said. 

"Take  it,  please,"  Helen  begged,  as  though 
she  feared  if  she  kept  it  a  moment  longer  she 
might  not  be  able  to  make  the  sacrifice. 

"That  will  be  enough  now,"  she  went  on, 
taking  out  her  ten-pound  note.  She  put  Lady 
Gower's  ring  back  upon  her  finger  and  picked 
up  Philip's  ring  and  watch  with  the  pleasure 
of  one  who  has  come  into  a  great  fortune.  She 
turned  back  at  the  door. 

"Oh,"  she  stammered,  "in  case  any  one  should 
inquire,  you  are  not  to  say  who  bought  these." 

"No,  miss,  certainly  not,"  said  the  woman. 
Helen  gave  the  direction  to  the  cabman  and, 
closing  the  doors  of  the  hansom,  sat  looking 
down  at  the  watch  and  the  ring,  as  they  lay  in 
her  lap.  The  thought  that  they  had  been  his 
most  valued  possessions,  which  he  had  aban 
doned  forever,  and  that  they  were  now  entirely 
hers,  to  do  with  as  she  liked,  filled  her  with 
most  intense  delight  and  pleasure.  She  took 
up  the  heavy  gold  ring  and  placed  it  on  the 
little  finger  of  her  left  hand;  it  was  much  too 
large,  and  she  removed  it  and  balanced  it  for  a 
moment  doubtfully  in  the  palm  of  her  right 
hand.  She  was  smiling,  and  her  face  was  lit 

1 80 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

with  shy  and  tender  thoughts.  She  cast  a  quick 
glance  to  the  left  and  right  as  though  fearful 
that  people  passing  in  the  street  would  observe 
her,  and  then  slipped  the  ring  over  the  fourth 
finger  of  her  left  hand.  She  gazed  at  it  with  a 
guilty  smile,  and  then,  covering  it  hastily  with 
her  other  hand,  leaned  back,  clasping  it  closely, 
and  sat  frowning  far  out  before  her  with  puzzled 
eyes. 

To  Carroll  all  roads  led  past  Helen's  studio, 
and  during  the  summer,  while  she  had  been 
absent  in  Scotland,  it  was  one  of  his  sad  plea 
sures  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  her  street  and  to 
pause  opposite  the  house  and  look  up  at  the 
empty  windows  of  her  rooms.  It  was  during 
this  daily  exercise  that  he  learned,  through  the 
arrival  of  her  luggage,  of  her  return  to  London, 
and  when  day  followed  day  without  her  having 
shown  any  desire  to  see  him  or  to  tell  him  of 
her  return,  he  denounced  himself  most  bitterly 
as  a  fatuous  fool. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  he  sat  down  and  con 
sidered  his  case  quite  calmly.  For  three  years 
he  had  loved  this  girl,  deeply  and  tenderly. 
He  had  been  lover,  brother,  friend,  and  guardian. 
During  that  time,  even  though  she  had  accepted 
him  in  every  capacity  except  as  that  of  the 
prospective  husband,  she  had  never  given  him 
any  real  affection,  nor  sympathy,  nor  help;  all 

181 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

she  had  done  for  him  had  been  done  without 
her  knowledge  or  intent.  To  know  her,  to  love 
her,  and  to  scheme  to  give  her  pleasure  had 
been  its  own  reward,  and  the  only  one.  For 
the  last  few  months  he  had  been  living  like  a 
crossing  sweeper  in  order  to  be  able  to  stay  in 
London  until  she  came  back  to  it,  and  that  he 
might  still  send  her  the  gifts  he  had  always  laid 
on  her  altar.  He  had  not  seen  her  in  three 
months.  Three  months  that  had  been  to  him 
a  blank,  except  for  his  work — which,  like  all 
else  that  he  did,  was  inspired  and  carried  on 
for  her.  Now  at  last  she  had  returned  and  had 
shown  that,  even  as  a  friend,  he  was  of  so  little 
account  in  her  thoughts,  of  so  little  consequence 
in  her  life,  that  after  this  long  absence  she  had 
no  desire  to  learn  of  his  welfare  or  to  see  him 
— she  did  not  even  give  him  the  chance  to  see 
her.  And  so,  placing  these  facts  before  him 
for  the  first  time  since  he  had  loved  her,  he 
considered  what  was  due  to  himself.  "Was  it 
good  enough?"  he  asked.  "Was  it  just  that 
he  should  continue  to  wear  out  his  soul  and 
body  for  this  girl  who  did  not  want  what 
he  had  to  give,  who  treated  him  less  con 
siderately  than  a  man  whom  she  met  for  the 
first  time  at  dinner?"  He  felt  he  had  reached 
the  breaking-point;  that  the  time  had  come 
when  he  must  consider  what  he  owed  to  himself. 

182 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

There  could  never  be  any  other  woman  save 
Helen;  but  as  it  was  not  to  be  Helen,  he  could 
no  longer,  with  self-respect,  continue  to  proffer 
his  love  only  to  see  it  slighted  and  neglected. 
He  was  humble  enough  concerning  himself,  but 
of  his  love  he  was  very  proud.  Other  men 
could  give  her  more  in  wealth  or  position,  but 
no  one  could  ever  love  her  as  he  did.  "He  that 
hath  more  let  him  give,"  he  had  often  quoted 
to  her  defiantly,  as  though  he  were  challenging 
the  world,  and  now  he  felt  he  must  evolve  a 
makeshift  world  of  his  own — a  world  in  which 
she  was  not  his  only  spring  of  acts;  he  must 
begin  all  over  again  and  keep  his  love  secret 
and  sacred  until  she  understood  it  and  wanted 
it.  And  if  she  should  never  want  it  he  would 
at  least  have  saved  it  from  many  rebuffs  and 
insults. 

With  this  determination  strong  in  him,  the 
note  Helen  had  left  for  him  after  her  talk  with 
Marion,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  note  with 
them,  saying  she  was  coming  to  take  tea  on  the 
morrow,  failed  to  move  him  except  to  make 
him  more  bitter.  He  saw  in  them  only  a  tardy 
recognition  of  her  neglect — an  effort  to  make 
up  to  him  for  thoughtlessness  which,  from  her, 
hurt  him  worse  than  studied  slight. 

A  new  regime  had  begun,  and  he  was  deter 
mined  to  establish  it  firmly  and  to  make  it 

183 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

impossible  for  himself  to  retreat  from  it;  and 
in  the  note  in  which  he  thanked  Helen  for  the 
flowers  and  welcomed  her  to  tea,  he  declared 
his  ultimatum. 

"You  know  how  terribly  I  feel/'  he  wrote; 
"I  don't  have  to  tell  you  that,  but  I  cannot 
always  go  on  dragging  out  my  love  and  holding 
it  up  to  excite  your  pity  as  beggars  show  their 
sores.  I  cannot  always  go  on  praying  before 
your  altar,  cutting  myself  with  knives  and 
calling  upon  you  to  listen  to  me.  You  know 
that  there  is  no  one  else  but  you,  and  that  there 
never  can  be  any  one  but  you,  and  that  nothing 
is  changed  except  that  after  this  I  am  not 
going  to  urge  and  torment  you.  I  shall  wait 
as  I  have  always  waited — only  now  I  shall 
wait  in  silence.  You  know  just  how  little,  in 
one  way,  I  have  to  offer  you,  and  you  know 
just  how  much  I  have  in  love  to  offer  you.  It 
is  now  for  you  to  speak — some  day,  or  never. 
But  you  will  have  to  speak  first.  You  will 
never  hear  a  word  of  love  from  me  again.  Why 
should  you?  You  know  it  is  always  waiting  for 
you.  But  if  you  should  ever  want  it,  you  must 
come  to  me,  and  take  off  your  hat  and  put  it  on 
my  table  and  say,  *  Philip,  I  have  come  to  stay.' 
Whether  you  can  ever  do  that  or  not  can  make 
no  difference  in  my  love  for  you.  I  shall  love 
you  always,  as  no  man  has  ever  loved  a  woman 

184 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

in  this  world,  but  it  is  you  who  must  speak  first; 
for  me,  the  rest  is  silence." 

The  following  morning  as  Helen  was  leaving 
the  house  she  found  this  letter  lying  on  the  hall- 
table,  and  ran  back  with  it  to  her  rooms.  A 
week  before  she  would  have  let  it  lie  on  the 
table  and  read  it  on  her  return.  She  was  con 
scious  that  this  was  what  she  would  have  done, 
and  it  pleased  her  to  find  that  what  concerned 
Philip  was  now  to  her  the  thing  of  greatest 
interest.  She  was  pleased  with  her  own  eager 
ness — her  own  happiness  was  a  welcome  sigri*, 
and  she  was  proud  and  glad  that  she  wa$ 
learning  to  care. 

She  read  the  letter  with  an  anxious  pride  and 
pleasure  in  each  word  that  was  entirely  new. 
Philip's  recriminations  did  not  hurt  her,  they 
were  the  sign  that  he  cared;  nor  did  his  deter 
mination  not  to  speak  of  his  love  to  her  hurt 
her,  for  she  believed  him  when  he  said  that  he 
would  always  care.  She  read  the  letter  twice, 
and  then  sat  for  some  time  considering  the  kind 
of  letter  Philip  would  have  written  had  he 
known  her  secret — had  he  known  that  the  ring 
he  had  abandoned  was  now  upon  her  finger. 

She-  rose  and,  crossing  to  a  desk,  placed  the 
letter  in  a  drawer,  and  then  took  it  out  again 
and  reread  the  last  page.  When  she  had  fin 
ished  it  she  was  smiling.  For  a  moment  she 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

stood  irresolute,  and  then,  moving  slowly  toward 
the  centre-table,  cast  a  guilty  look  about  her 
and,  raising  her  hands,  lifted  her  veil  and  half 
withdrew  the  pins  that  fastened  her  hat. 

"Philip,"  she  began,  in  a  frightened  whisper, 
"I  have — I  have  come  to " 

The  sentence  ended  in  a  cry  of  protest,  and 
she  rushed  across  the  room  as  though  she  were 
running  from  herself.  She  was  blushing  vio 
lently. 

"Never!"  she  cried,  as  she  pulled  open  the 
door;  "I  could  never  do  it — never!" 

The  following  afternoon,  when  Helen  was  to 
come  to  tea,  Carroll  decided  that  he  would  re 
ceive  her  with  all  the  old  friendliness,  but  that 
he  must  be  careful  to  subdue  all  emotion. 

He  was  really  deeply  hurt  at  her  treatment, 
and  had  it  not  been  that  she  came  on  her  own 
invitation  he  would  not  of  his  own  accord  have 
sought  to  see  her.  In  consequence,  he  rather 
welcomed  than  otherwise  the  arrival  of  Marion 
Cavendish,  who  came  a  half-hour  before  Helen 
was  expected,  and  who  followed  a  hasty  knock 
with  a  precipitate  entrance. 

"Sit  down,"  she  commanded,  breathlessly, 
"and  listen.  I've  been  at  rehearsal  all  day,  or 
I'd  have  been  here  before  you  were  awake." 
She  seated  herself  nervously  and  nodded  her  head 
at  Carroll  in  an  excited  and  mysterious  manner. 

1 86 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked.  "Have  you  and 
Reggie 

"Listen,"  Marion  repeated.  "Our  fortunes 
are  made;  that  is  what's  the  matter — and  I've 
made  them.  If  you  took  half  the  interest  in 
your  work  I  do,  you'd  have  made  yours  long 
ago.  Last  night,"  she  began,  impressively,  "I 
went  to  a  large  supper  at  the  Savoy,  and  I  sat 
next  to  Charley  Wimpole.  He  came  in  late, 
after  everybody  had  finished,  and  I  attacked 
him  while  he  was  eating  his  supper.  He  said 
he  had  been  rehearsing  'Caste'  after  the  per 
formance;  that  they've  put  it  on  as  a  stop-gap 
on  account  of  the  failure  of  'The  Triflers/  and 
that  he  knew  revivals  were  of  no  use;  that  he 
would  give  any  sum  for  a  good  modern  comedy. 
That  was  my  cue,  and  I  told  him  I  knew  of  a 
better  comedy  than  any  he  had  produced  at  his 
theatre  in  five  years,  and  that  it  was  going  beg 
ging.  He  laughed,  and  asked  where  was  he  to 
find  this  wonderful  comedy,  and  I  said,  'It's 
been  in  your  safe  for  the  last  two  months  and 
you  haven't  read  it.'  He  said,  '  Indeed,  how  do 
you  know  that?'  and  I  said,  'Because  if  you'd 
read  it,  it  wouldn't  be  in  your  safe,  but  on  your 
stage.'  So  he  asked  me  what  the  play  was 
about,  and  I  told  him  the  plot  and  what  sort 
of  a  part  his  was,  and  some  of  his  scenes,  and 
he  began  to  take  notice.  He  forgot  his  supper, 

187 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

and  very  soon  he  grew  so  interested  that  he 
turned  his  chair  round  and  kept  eying  my 
supper-card  to  find  out  who  I  was,  and  at  last 
remembered  seeing  me  in  'The  New  Boy' — 
and  a  rotten  part  it  was,  too — but  he  remem 
bered  it,  and  he  told  me  to  go  on  and  tell  him 
more  about  your  play.  So  I  recited  it,  bit  by 
bit,  and  he  laughed  in  all  the  right  places  and 
got  very  much  excited,  and  said  finally  that  he 
would  read  it  the  first  thing  this  morning." 
Marion  paused,  breathlessly.  "Oh,  yes,  and  he 
wrote  your  address  on  his  cuff,"  she  added, 
with  the  air  of  delivering  a  complete  and  con 
vincing  climax. 

Carroll  stared  at  her  and  pulled  excitedly  on 
his  pipe. 

"Oh,  Marion!"-  he  gasped,  "suppose  he 
should?  He  won't,  though,"  he  added,  but 
eying  her  eagerly  and  inviting  contradiction. 

"He  will,"  she  answered,  stoutly,  "if  he  reads 


it.' 


"The  other  managers  read  it,"  Carroll  sug 
gested,  doubtfully. 

"Yes,  but  what  do  they  know?"  Marion 
returned,  loftily.  "He  knows.  Charles  Wim- 
pole  is  the  only  intelligent  actor-manager  in 
London." 

There  was  a  sharp  knock  at  the  door,  which 
Marion  in  her  excitement  had  left  ajar,  and 

1 88 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

Prentiss  threw  it  wide  open  with  an  impressive 
sweep,  as  though  he  were  announcing  royalty. 
"Mr.  Charles  Wimpole,"  he  said. 

The  actor- manager  stopped  in  the  doorway 
bowing  gracefully,  his  hat  held  before  him  and 
his  hand  on  his  stick  as  though  it  were  resting 
on  a  foil.  He  had  the  face  and  carriage  of  a 
gallant  of  the  days  of  Congreve,  and  he  wore 
his  modern  frock-coat  with  as  much  distinction 
as  if  it  were  of  silk  and  lace.  He  was  evidently 
amused.  "I  couldn't  help  overhearing  the  last 
line,"  he  said,  smiling.  "It  gives  me  a  good 


entrance." 


Marion  gazed  at  him  blankly.  "Oh,"  she 
gasped,  "we — we  —  were  just  talking  about 
you." 

"If  you  hadn't  mentioned  my  name,"  the 
actor  said,  "I  should  never  have  guessed  it. 
And  this  is  Mr.  Carroll,  I  hope." 

The  great  man  was  rather  pleased  with  the 
situation.  As  he  read  it,  it  struck  him  as 
possessing  strong  dramatic  possibilities:  Car 
roll  was  the  struggling  author  on  the  verge  of 
starvation;  Marion,  his  sweetheart,  flying  to 
him  gave  him  hope;  and  he  was  the  good  fairy 
arriving  in  the  nick  of  time  to  set  everything 
right  and  to  make  the  young  people  happy  and 
prosperous.  He  rather  fancied  himself  in  the 
part  of  the  good  fairy,  and  as  he  seated  himself 

189 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

he  bowed  to  them  both  in  a  manner  which  was 
charmingly  inclusive  and  confidential. 

"Miss  Cavendish,  I  imagine,  has  already 
warned  you  that  you  might  expect  a  visit  from 
me,"  he  said,  tentatively.  Carroll  nodded. 
He  was  too  much  concerned  to  interrupt. 

"Then  I  need  only  tell  you,"  Wimpole  con 
tinued,  "that  I  got  up  at  an  absurd  hour  this 
morning  to  read  your  play;  that  I  did  read  it; 
that  I  like  it  immensely — and  that  if  we  can 
come  to  terms  I  shall  produce  it.  I  shall 
produce  it  at  once,  within  a  fortnight  or  three 
weeks." 

Carroll  was  staring  at  him  intently  and  con 
tinued  doing  so  after  Wimpole  had  finished 
speaking.  The  actor  felt  he  had  somehow 
missed  his  point,  or  that  Carroll  could  not  have 
understood  him,  and  repeated,  "I  say  I  shall 
put  it  in  rehearsal  at  once." 

Carroll  rose  abruptly,  and  pushed  back  his 
chair.  "I  should  be  very  glad,"  he  murmured, 
and  strode  over  to  the  window,  where  he  stood 
with  his  back  turned  to  his  guests.  Wimpole 
looked  after  him  with  a  kindly  smile  and  nodded 
his  head  appreciatively.  He  had  produced 
even  a  greater  effect  than  his  lines  seemed  to 
warrant.  When  he  spoke  again,  it  was  quite 
simply,  and  sincerely,  and  though  he  spoke  for 
Carroll's  benefit,  he  addressed  himself  to  Marion. 

190 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

"You  were  quite  right  last  night,"  he  said; 
"it  is  a  most  charming  piece  of  work.  I  am 
really  extremely  grateful  to  you  for  bringing 
it  to  my  notice."  He  rose,  and  going  to  Car 
roll,  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "My  boy," 
he  said,  "I  congratulate  you.  I  should  like 
to  be  your  age,  and  to  have  written  that  play. 
Come  to  my  theatre  to-morrow  and  we  will 
talk  terms.  Talk  it  over  first  with  your  friends, 
so  that  I  shan't  rob  you.  Do  you  think  you 
would  prefer  a  lump  sum  now,  and  so  be  done 
with  it  altogether,  or  trust  that  the  royalties 
may- 

"  Royalties,"  prompted  Marion,  in  an  eager 
aside. 

The  men  laughed.  "Quite  right,"  Wimpole 
assented,  good-humoredly;  "it's  a  poor  sports 
man  who  doesn't  back  his  own  horse.  Well, 
then,  until  to-morrow." 

"But,"  Carroll  began,  "one  moment,  please. 
I  haven't  thanked  you." 

"My  dear  boy,"  cried  Wimpole,  waving  him 
away  with  his  stick,  "it  is  I  who  have  to  thank 
you." 

"And — and  there  is  a  condition,"  Carroll 
said,  "  which  goes  with  the  play.  It  is  that  Miss 
Cavendish  is  to  have  the  part  of  Nancy." 

Wimpole  looked  serious  and  considered  for  a 
moment. 

191 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

"Nancy,"  he  said,  "the  girl  who  interferes — 
a  very  good  part.  I  have  cast  Miss  Maddox 
for  it  in  my  mind,  but,  of  course,  if  the  author 
insists " 

Marion,  with  her  elbows  on  the  table,  clasped 
her  hands  appealingly  before  her. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wimpole!"  she  cried,  "you  owe  me 
that,  at  least." 

Carroll  leaned  over  and  took  both  of  Marion's 
hands  in  one  of  his. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said;  "the  author  insists." 

Wimpole  waved  his  stick  again  as  though  it 
were  the  magic  wand  of  the  good  fairy. 

"You  shall  have  it,"  he  said.  "I  recall  your 
performance  in  'The  New  Boy'  with  pleasure. 
I  take  the  play,  and  Miss  Cavendish  shall  be 
cast  for  Nancy.  We  shall  begin  rehearsals  at 
once.  I  hope  you  are  a  quick  study." 

"I'm  letter-perfect  now,"  laughed  Marion. 

Wimpole  turned  at  the  door  and  nodded  to 
them.  They  were  both  so  young,  so  eager,  and 
so  jubilant  that  he  felt  strangely  old  and  out 
of  it.  "Good-by,  then,"  he  said. 

"Good-by,  sir,"  they  both  chorused.  And 
Marion  cried  after  him,  "And  thank  you  a 
thousand  times." 

He  turned  again  and  looked  back  at  them, 
but  in  their  rejoicing  they  had  already  forgotten 
him.  "Bless  you,  my  children,"  he  said,  smil- 

192 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

ing.  As  he  was  about  to  close  the  door  a  young 
girl  came  down  the  passage  toward  it,  and  as 
she  was  apparently  going  to  Carroll's  rooms, 
the  actor  left  the  door  open  behind  him. 

Neither  Marion  nor  Carroll  had  noticed  his 
final  exit.  They  were  both  gazing  at  each 
other  as  though,  could  they  find  speech,  they 
would  ask  if  it  were  true. 

"It's  come  at  last,  Marion,"  Philip  said,  with 
an  uncertain  voice. 

"I  could  weep,"  cried  Marion.  "Philip,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  I  would  rather  see  that  play  succeed 
than  any  play  ever  written,  and  I  would  rather 
play  that  part  in  it  than —  Oh,  Philip,"  she 
ended,  "I'm  so  proud  of  you!"  and  rising,  she 
threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  sobbed  on 
his  shoulder. 

Carroll  raised  one  of  her  hands  and  kissed 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  gently.  "I  owe  it  to 
you,  Marion,"  he  said — "all  to  you." 

This  was  the  tableau  that  was  presented 
through  the  open  door  to  Miss  Helen  Cabot, 
hurrying  on  her  errand  of  restitution  and  good 
will,  and  with  Philip's  ring  and  watch  clasped 
in  her  hand.  They  had  not  heard  her,  nor  did 
they  see  her  at  the  door,  so  she  drew  back 
quickly  and  ran  along  the  passage  and  down 
the  stairs  into  the  street. 

She  did  not  need  now  to  analyze  her  feelings. 

193 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

They  were  only  too  evident.  For  she  could 
translate  what  she  had  just  seen  as  meaning 
only  one  thing — that  she  had  considered  Philip's 
love  so  lightly  that  she  had  not  felt  it  passing 
away  from  her  until  her  neglect  had  killed  it — 
until  it  was  too  late.  And  now  that  it  was  too 
late  she  felt  that  without  it  her  life  could  not 
go  on.  She  tried  to  assure  herself  that  only 
the  fact  that  she  had  lost  it  made  it  seem  in 
valuable,  but  this  thought  did  not  comfort  her 
— she  was  not  deceived  by  it,  she  knew  that  at 
last  she  cared  for  him  deeply  and  entirely.  In 
her  distress  she  blamed  herself  bitterly,  but  she 
also  blamed  Philip  no  less  bitterly  for  having 
failed  to  wait  for  her.  "He  might  have  known 
that  I  must  love  him  in  time,"  she  repeated  to 
herself  again  and  again.  She  was  so  unhappy 
that  her  letter  congratulating  Philip  on  his 
good  fortune  in  having  his  comedy  accepted 
seemed  to  him  cold  and  unfeeling,  and  as  his 
success  meant  for  him  only  what  it  meant  to 
her,  he  was  hurt  and  grievously  disappointed. 

He  accordingly  turned  the  more  readily  to 
Marion,  whose  interest  and  enthusiasm  at  the 
rehearsals  of  the  piece  seemed  in  contrast  most 
friendly  and  unselfish.  He  could  not  help  but 
compare  the  attitude  of  the  two  girls  at  this 
time,  when  the  failure  or  success  of  his  best 
work  was  still  undecided.  He  felt  that  as  Helen 

194 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

took  so  little  interest  in  his  success  he  could  not 
dare  to  trouble  her  with  his  anxieties  concerning 
it,  and  she  attributed  his  silence  to  his  preoccu 
pation  and  interest  in  Marion.  So  the  two 
grew  apart,  each  misunderstanding  the  other 
and  each  troubled  in  spirit  at  the  other's  in 
difference. 

The  first  night  of  the  play  justified  all  that 
Marion  and  Wimpole  had  claimed  for  it,  and 
was  a  great  personal  triumph  for  the  new  play 
wright.  The  audience  was  the  typical  first- 
night  audience  of  the  class  which  Charles 
Wimpole  always  commanded.  It  was  brilliant, 
intelligent,  and  smart,  and  it  came  prepared  to 
be  pleased. 

From  one  of  the  upper  stage-boxes  Helen 
and  Lady  Gower  watched  the  successful  prog 
ress  of  the  play  with  an  anxiety  almost  as  keen 
as  that  of  the  author.  To  Helen  it  seemed  as 
though  the  giving  of  these  lines  to  the  public — 
these  lines  which  he  had  so  often  read  to  her, 
and  altered  to  her  liking — was  a  desecration. 
It  seemed  as  though  she  were  losing  him  indeed 
—as  though  he  now  belonged  to  these  strange 
people,  all  of  whom  were  laughing  and  ap 
plauding  his  words,  from  the  German  Princess 
in  the  Royal  box  to  the  straight-backed  Tommy 
in  the  pit.  Instead  of  the  painted  scene  before 
her,  she  saw  the  birch-trees  by  the  river  at 

195 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

home,  where  he  had  first  read  her  the  speech  to 
which  they  were,  now  listening  so  intensely — 
the  speech  in  which  the  hero  tells  the  girl  he 
loves  her.  She  remembered  that  at  the  time  she 
had  thought  how  wonderful  it  would  be  if  some 
day  some  one  made  such  a  speech  to  her — not 
Philip,  but  a  man  she  loved.  And  now?  If 
Philip  would  only  make  that  speech  to  her  now ! 

He  came  out  at  last,  with  Wimpole  leading 
him,  and  bowed  across  a  glaring  barrier  of 
lights  at  a  misty  but  vociferous  audience  that 
was  shouting  the  generous  English  bravo !  and 
standing  up  to  applaud.  He  raised  his  eyes  to 
the  box  where  Helen  sat,  and  saw  her  staring 
down  at  the  tumult,  with  her  hands  clasped 
under  her  chin.  Her  face  was  colorless,  but 
lit  with  the  excitement  of  the  moment;  and  he 
saw  that  she  was  crying. 

Lady  Gower,  from  behind  her,  was  clapping 
her  hands  delightedly. 

"But,  my  dear  Helen,"  she  remonstrated, 
breathlessly,  "you  never  told  me  he  was  so 
good-looking." 

"Yes,"  said  Helen,  rising  abruptly,  "he  is — 
very  good-looking." 

She  crossed  the  box  to  where  her  cloak  was 
hanging,  but  instead  of  taking  it  down,  buried 
her  face  in  its  folds. 

"My  dear  child!"  cried  Lady  Gower,  in  dis- 
196 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

may.  "What  is  it?  The  excitement  has  been 
too  much  for  you." 

"No,  I  am  just  happy,"  sobbed  Helen.  "I 
am  just  happy  for  him." 

"We  will  go  and  tell  him  so,  then,"  said 
Lady  Gower.  "I  am  sure  he  would  like  to 
hear  it  from  you  to-night." 

Philip  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  stage, 
surrounded  by  many  pretty  ladies  and  elderly 
men.  Wimpole  was  hovering  over  him  as 
though  he  had  claims  upon  him  by  the  right  of 
discovery. 

But  when  Philip  saw  Helen,  he  pushed  his 
way  toward  her  eagerly  and  took  her  hand  in 
both  of  his. 

"I  am  so  glad,  Phil,"  she  said.  She  felt  it 
all  so  deeply  that  she  was  afraid  to  say  more, 
but  that  meant  so  much  to  her  that  she  was 
sure  he  would  understand. 

He  had  planned  it  very  differently.  For  a 
year  he  had  dreamed  that,  on  the  first  night  of 
his  play,  there  would  be  a  supper,  and  that  he 
would  rise  and  drink  her  health,  and  tell  his 
friends  and  the  world  that  she  was  the  woman 
he  loved,  and  that  she  had  agreed  to  marry 
him,  and  that  at  last  he  was  able,  through  the 
success  of  his  play,  to  make  her  his  wife. 

And  now  they  met  in  a  crowd  to  shake  hands, 
and  she  went  her  way  with  one  of  her  grand 

197 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

ladies,  and  he  was  left  among  a  group  of  chat 
tering  strangers.  The  great  English  playwright 
took  him  by  the  hand  and  in  the  hearing  of  all 
praised  him  gracefully  and  kindly.  It  did  not 
matter  to  Philip  whether  the  older  playwright 
believed  what  he  said  or  not;  he  knew  it  was 
generously  meant. 

"  I  envy  you  this,"  the  great  man  was  saying. 
"Don't  lose  any  of  it,  stay  and  listen  to  all 
they  have  to  say.  You  will  never  live  through 
the  first  night  of  your  first  play  but  once." 

"Yes,  I  hear  them,"  said  Philip,  nervously; 
"they  are  all  too  kind.  But  I  don't  hear  the 
voice  I  have  been  listening  for,"  he  added,  in  a 
whisper.  The  older  man  pressed  his  hand 
again  quickly.  "My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "I 
am  sorry." 

"Thank  you,"  Philip  answered. 

Within  a  week  he  had  forgotten  the  great 
man's  fine  words  of  praise,  but  the  clasp  of  his 
hand  he  cherished  always. 

Helen  met  Marion  as  she  was  leaving  the 
stage-door  and  stopped  to  congratulate  her  on 
her  success  in  the  new  part.  Marion  was 
radiant.  To  Helen  she  seemed  obstreperously 
happy  and  jubilant. 

"And,  Marion,"  Helen  began,  bravely,  "I 
also  want  to  congratulate  you  on  something 
else.  You — you — neither  of  you  have  told  me 

198 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

yet,"  she  stammered,  "but  I  am  such  an  old 
friend  of  both  that  I  will  not  be  kept  out  of 
the  secret."  At  these  words  Marion's  air  of 
triumphant  gayety  vanished;  she  regarded 
Helen's  troubled  eyes  closely  and  kindly. 

"What  secret,  Helen?"  she  asked. 

"I  came  to  the  door  of  Philip's  room  the 
other  day  when  you  did  not  know  I  was  there," 
Helen  answered,  "and  I  could  not  help  seeing 
how  matters  were.  And  I  do  congratulate  you 
both — and  wish  you — oh,  such  happiness!" 
Without  a  word  Marion  dragged  her  back  down 
the  passage  to  her  dressing-room,  and  closed 
the  door. 

"Now  tell  me  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

"I  am  sorry  if  I  discovered  anything  you 
didn't  want  known  yet,"  said  Helen,  "but  the 
door  was  open.  Mr.  Wimpole  had  just  left  you 
and  had  not  shut  it,  and  I  could  not  help 
seeing." 

Marion  interrupted  her  with  an  eager  ex 
clamation  of  enlightenment. 

"Oh,  you  were  there,  then,"  she  cried.  "And 
you?"  she  asked,  eagerly — "you  thought  Phil 
cared  for  me — that  we  are  engaged,  and  it  hurt 
you;  you  are  sorry?  Tell  me,"  she  demanded, 
"are  you  sorry?" 

Helen  drew  back  and  stretched  out  her  hand 
toward  the  door. 

199 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

"How  can  you!"  she  exclaimed,  indignantly. 
"You  have  no  right." 

Marion  stood  between  her  and  the  door. 

"I  have  every  right,"  she  said,  "to  help  my 
friends,  and  I  want  to  help  you  and  Philip. 
And,  indeed,  I  do  hope  you  are  sorry.  I  hope 
you  are  miserable.  And  I'm  glad  you  saw  me 
kiss  him.  That  was  the  first  and  the  last 
time,  and  I  did  it  because  I  was  happy  and 
glad  for  him;  and  because  I  love  him,  too,  but 
not  in  the  least  in  the  way  he  loves  you.  No 
one  ever  loved  any  one  as  he  loves  you.  And 
it's  time  you  found  it  out.  And  if  I  have 
helped  to  make  you  find  it  out,  I'm  glad,  and 
I  don't  care  how  much  I  hurt  you." 

"Marion!"  exclaimed  Helen,  "what  does  it 
mean  ?  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  not  engaged ; 
that- 

" Certainly  not,"  Marion  answered.  "I  am 
going  to  marry  Reggie.  It  is  you  that  Philip 
loves,  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  you  that  you 
don't  love  him." 

Helen  clasped  Marion's  hands  in  both  of 
hers. 

"But,  Marion!"  she  cried,  "I  do,  oh,  I 
do!" 

There  was  a  thick  yellow  fog  the  next  morn 
ing,  and  with  it  rain  and  a  sticky,  depressing 

200 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

dampness  which  crept  through  the  window- 
panes,  and  which  neither  a  fire  nor  blazing  gas- 
jets  could  overcome. 

Philip  stood  in  front  of  the  fireplace  with  the 
morning  papers  piled  high  on  the  centre-table 
and  scattered  over  the  room  about  him. 

He  had  read  them  all,  and  he  knew  now  what 
it  was  to  wake  up  famous,  but  he  could  not 
taste  it.  Now  that  it  had  come  it  meant 
nothing,  and  that  it  was  so  complete  a  triumph 
only  made  it  the  harder.  In  his  most  optimistic 
dreams  he  had  never  imagined  success  so  satis 
fying  as  the  reality  had  proved  to  be;  but  in 
his  dreams  Helen  had  always  held  the  chief 
part,  and  without  her,  success  seemed  only  to 
mock  him. 

He  wanted  to  lay  it  all  before  her,  to  say, 
"If  you  are  pleased,  I  am  happy.  If  you  are 
satisfied,  then  I  am  content.  It  was  done  for 
you,  and  I  am  wholly  yours,  and  all  that  I  do 
is  yours."  And,  as  though  in  answer  to  his 
thoughts,  there  was  an  instant  knock  at  the 
door,  and  Helen  entered  the  room  and  stood 
smiling  at  him  across  the  table. 

Her  eyes  were  lit  with  excitement,  and  spoke 
with  many  emotions,  and  her  cheeks  were 
brilliant  with  color.  He  had  never  seen  her 
look  more  beautiful. 

"Why,  Helen!"  he  exclaimed,  "how  good  of 
201 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

you  to  come.  Is  there  anything  wrong?  Is 
anything  the  matter?" 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  faltered,  and  smiled 
at  him  appealingly. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  in  great  concern. 

Helen  drew  in  her  breath  quickly,  and  at 
the  same  moment  motioned  him  away — and  he 
stepped  back  and  stood  watching  her  in  much 
perplexity. 

With  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  she  raised  her 
hands  to  her  head,  and  her  fingers  fumbled  with 
the  knot  of  her  veil.  She  pulled  it  loose,  and 
then,  with  a  sudden  courage,  lifted  her  hat 
proudly,  as  though  it  were  a  coronet,  and 
placed  it  between  them  on  his  table. 

"Philip,"  she  stammered,  with  the  tears  in 
her  voice  and  eyes,  "  if  you  will  let  me — I  have 
come  to  stay." 

The  table  was  no  longer  between  them.  He 
caught  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  face  and 
her  uncovered  head  again  and  again.  From 
outside  the  rain  beat  drearily  and  the  fog 
rolled  through  the  street,  but  inside  before  the 
fire  the  two  young  people  sat  close  together, 
asking  eager  questions  or  sitting  in  silence, 
staring  at  the  flames  with  wondering,  happy 
eyes. 

The  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  saw  them  only 
once  again.  It  was  a  month  later  when  they 

202 


THE  LION  AND  THE  UNICORN 

stopped  in  front  of  the  shop  in  a  four-wheeler, 
with  their  baggage  mixed  on  top  of  it,  and 
steamer-labels  pasted  over  every  trunk. 

"And,  oh,  Prentiss!"  Carroll  called  from 
the  cab- window.  "I  came  near  forgetting. 
I  promised  to  gild  the  Lion  and  the  Unicorn  if 
I  won  out  in  London.  So  have  it  done,  please, 
and  send  the  bill  to  me.  For  I've  won  out  all 
right."  And  then  he  shut  the  door  of  the  cab, 
and  they  drove  away  forever. 

"Nice  gal,  that,"  growled  the  Lion.  "I 
always  liked  her.  I  am  glad  they've  settled  it 
at  last." 

The  Unicorn  sighed  sentimentally.  "The 
other  one's  worth  two  of  her,"  he  said. 


203 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 

A  SKETCH  CONTAINING  THREE  POINTS  OF  VIEW 

What  the  Poet  Laureate  wrote. 

"THERE  are  girls  in  the  Gold  Reef  City, 

There  are  mothers  and  children  too ! 
And  they  cry  'Hurry  up  for  pity!* 
So  what  can  a  brave  man  do? 

"  I  suppose  we  were  wrong,  were  mad  men, 

Still  I  think  at  the  Judgment  Day, 
When  God  sifts  the  good  from  the  bad  men, 
There'll  be  something  more  to  say." 

What  more  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  Jound  to 
say. 

"In  this  case  we  know  the  immediate  con 
sequence  of  your  crime.  It  has  been  the  loss 
of  human  life,  it  has  been  the  disturbance  of 
public  peac'e,  it  has  been  the  creation  of  a 
certain  sense  of  distrust  of  public  professions 
and  of  public  faith.  .  .  .  The  sentence  of  this 
Court  therefore  is  that,  as  to  you,  Leander 
Starr  Jameson,  you  be  confined  for  a  period 

204 


THE   LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 

of  fifteen  months  without  hard  labor;  that 
you,  Sir  John  Willoughby,  have  ten  months' 
imprisonment;  and  that  you,  etc.,  etc." 

London  Times,  July  2gtb. 

What  the  Hon.  "Reggie"  Blake  thought  about  it. 

"H.  M.  HOLLOWAY  PRISON, 
"July  28th. 

"I  am  going  to  keep  a  diary  while  I  am  in 
prison,  that  is,  if  they  will  let  me.  I  never 
kept  one  before  because  I  hadn't  the  time; 
when  I  was  home  on  leave  there  was  too  much 
going  on  to  bother  about  it,  and  when  I  was  up 
country  I  always  came  back  after  a  day's 
riding  so  tired  that  I  was  too  sleepy  to  write 
anything.  And  now  that  I  have  the  time,  I 
won't  have  anything  to  write  about.  I  fancy 
that  more  things  happened  to  me  to-day  than 
are  likely  to  happen  again  for  the  next  eight 
months,  so  I  will  make  this  day  take  up  as 
much  room  in  the  diary  as  it  can.  I  am  writing 
this  on  the  back  of  the  paper  the  Warder  uses 
for  his  official  reports,  while  he  is  hunting  up 
cells  to  put  us  in.  We  came  down  on  him 
rather  unexpectedly  and  he  is  nervous. 

"Of  course,  I  had  prepared  myself  for  this 
after  a  fashion,  but  now  I  see  that  somehow  I 
never  really  did  think  I  would  be  in  here,  and 

205 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 

all  my  friends  outside,  and  everything  going 
on  just  the  same  as  though  I  wasn't  alive 
somewhere.  It's  like  telling  yourself  that  your 
horse  can't  possibly  pull  off  a  race,  so  that  you 
won't  mind  so  much  if  he  doesn't,  but  you 
always  feel  just  as  bad  when  he  comes  in  a 
loser.  A  man  can't  fool  himself  into  thinking 
one  way  when  he  is  hoping  the  other. 

"But  I  am  glad  it  is  over,  and  settled.  It 
was  a  great  bore  not  knowing  your  luck  and 
having  the  thing  hanging  over  your  head 
every  morning  when  you  woke  up.  Indeed  it 
it  was  quite  a  relief  when  the  counsel  got  all 
through  arguing  over  those  proclamations,  and 
the  Chief  Justice  summed  up,  but  I  nearly 
went  to  sleep  when  I  found  he  was  going  all 
over  it  again  to  the  jury.  I  didn't  understand 
about  those  proclamations  myself  and  I'll  lay 
a  fiver  the  jury  didn't  either.  The  Colonel 
said  he  didn't.  I  couldn't  keep  my  mind  on 
what  Russell  was  explaining  about,  and  I  got 
to  thinking  how  much  old  Justice  Hawkins 
looked  like  the  counsel  in  'Alice  in  Wonderland' 
when  they  tried  the  knave  of  spades  for  stealing 
the  tarts.  He  has  just  the  same  sort  of  a  beak 
and  the  same  sort  of  a  wig,  and  I  wondered 
why  he  had  his  wig  powdered  and  the  others 
didn't.  Pollock's  wig  had  a  hole  in  the  top; 
you  could  see  it  when  he  bent  over  to  take 

206 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 

notes.  He  was  always  taking  notes.  I  don't 
believe  he  understood  about  those  proclama 
tions  either;  he  never  seemed  to  listen,  anyway. 

"The  Chief  Justice  certainly  didn't  love  us 
very  much,  that's  sure;  and  he  wasn't  going 
to  let  anybody  else  love  us  either.  I  felt 
quite  the  Christian  Martyr  when  Sir  Edward 
was  speaking  in  defense.  He  made  it  sound 
as  though  we  were  all  a  lot  of  Adelphi  heroes 
and  ought  to  be  promoted  and  have  medals, 
but  when  Lord  Russell  started  in  to  read  the 
Riot  Act  at  us  I  began  to  believe  that  hanging 
was  too  good  for  me.  I'm  sure  I  never  knew 
I  was  disturbing  the  peace  of  nations;  it  seems 
like  such  a  large  order  for  a  subaltern. 

"But  the  worst  was  when  they  made  us 
stand  up  before  all  those  people  to  be  sen 
tenced.  I  must  say  I  felt  shaky  about  the 
knees  then,  not  because  I  was  afraid  of  what 
was  coming,  but  because  it  was  the  first  time 
I  had  ever  been  pointed  out  before  people,  and 
made  to  feel  ashamed.  And  having  those 
girls  there,  too,  looking  at  one.  That  wasn't 
just  fair  to  us.  It  made  me  feel  about  ten 
years  old,  and  I  remembered  how  the  Head 
Master  used  to  call  me  to  his  desk  and  say, 
'Blake  Senior,  two  pages  of  Horace  and  keep 
in  bounds  for  a  week.'  And  then  I  heard  our 
names  and  the  months,  and  my  name  and 

207 


THE   LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 

*  eight  months'  imprisonment,'  and  there  was  a 
bustle  and  murmur  and  the  tipstaves  cried, 
'Order  in  the  Court,'  and  the  Judges  stood  up 
and  shook  out  their  big  red  skirts  as  though 
they  were  shaking  off  the  contamination  of  our 
presence  and  rustled  away,  and  I  sat  down, 
wondering  how  long  eight  months  was,  and 
wishing  they'd  given  me  as  much  as  they  gave 
Jameson. 

"They  put  us  in  a  room  together  then,  and 
our  counsel  said  how  sorry  they  were,  and 
shook  hands,  and  went  off  to  dinner  and  left 
us.  I  thought  they  might  have  waited  with  us 
and  been  a  little  late  for  dinner  just  that  once; 
but  no  one  waited  except  a  lot  of  costers  outside 
whom  we  did  not  know.  It  was  eight  o'clock 
and  still  quite  light  when  we  came  out,  and 
there  was  a  line  of  four-wheelers  and  a  hansom 
ready  for  us.  I'd  been  hoping  they  would 
take  us  out  by  the  Strand  entrance,  just  be 
cause  I'd  liked  to  have  seen  it  again,  but  they 
marched  us  instead  through  the  main  quad 
rangle — a  beastly,  gloomy  courtyard  that  ech 
oed,  and  out,  into  Carey  Street — such  a  dirty, 
gloomy  street.  The  costers  and  clerks  set  up 
a  sort  of  a  cheer  when  we  came  out,  and  one  of 
them  cried,  'God  bless  you,  sir,'  to  the  doctor, 
but  I  was  sorry  they  cheered.  It  seemed  like 
kicking  against  the  umpire's  decision.  The 

208 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 

Colonel  and  I  got  into  a  hansom  together  and 
we  trotted  off  into  Chancery  Lane  and  turned 
into  Holborn.  Most  of  the  shops  were  closed, 
and  the  streets  looked  empty,  but  there  was  a 
lighted  clock-face  over  Mooney's  public  house, 
and  the  hands  stood  at  a  quarter  past  eight. 
I  didn't  know  where  HoIIoway  was,  and  was 
hoping  they  would  have  to  take  us  through 
some  decent  streets  to  reach  it;  but  we  didn't 
see  a  part  of  the  city  that  meant  anything  to 
me,  or  that  I  would  choose  to  travel  through 
again. 

"Neither  of  us  talked,  and  I  imagined  that 
the  people  in  the  .streets  knew  we  were  going 
to  prison,  and  I  kept  my  eyes  on  the  enamel 
card  on  the  back  of  the  apron.  I  suppose  I 
read,  'Two- wheeled  hackney  carriage:  if  hired 
and  discharged  within  the  four- mile  limit,  is.' 
at  least  a  hundred  times.  I  got  more  sensible 
after  a  bit,  and  when  we  had  turned  into  Gray's 
Inn  Road  I  looked  up  and  saw  a  tram  in  front 
of  us  with  'HoIIoway  Road  and  King's  X,' 
painted  on  the  steps,  and  the  Colonel  saw  it 
about  the  same  time  I  fancy,  for  we  each 
looked  at  the  other,  and  the  Colonel  raised  his 
eyebrows.  It  showed  us  that  at  least  the  cab 
man  knew  where  we  were  going. 

'They    might    have   taken    us    for    a  turn 
through  the  West  End  first,  I  think,'  the  Colonel 

209 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 

said.  'I'd  like  to  have  had  a  look  around, 
wouldn't  you?  This  isn't  a  cheerful  neighbor 
hood,  is  it?' 

"There  were  a  lot  of  children  playing  in  St. 
Andrew's  Gardens,  and  a  crowd  of  them  ran 
out  just  as  we  passed,  shrieking  and  laughing 
over  nothing,  the  way  kiddies  do,  and  that  was 
about  the  only  pleasant  sight  in  the  ride.  I 
had  quite  a  turn  when  we  came  to  the  New 
Hospital  just  beyond,  for  I  thought  it  was  Hol- 
loway,  and  it  came  over  me  what  eight  months 
in  such  a  place  meant.  I  believe  if  I  hadn't 
pulled  myself  up  sharp,  I'd  have  jumped  out 
into  the  street  and  run  away.  It  didn't  last 
more  than  a  few  seconds,  but  I  don't  want  any 
more  like  them.  I  was  afraid,  afraid — there's 
no  use  pretending  it  was  anything  else.  I  was 
in  a  dumb,  silly  funk,  and  I  turned  sick  inside 
and  shook,  as  I  have  seen  a  horse  shake  when 
he  shies  at  nothing  and  sweats  and  trembles 
down  his  sides. 

"During  those  few  seconds  it  seemed  to 
be  more  than  I  could  stand;  I  felt  sure  that 
I  couldn't  do  it — that  I'd  go  mad  if  they  tried 
to  force  me.  The  idea  was  so  terrible — of  not 
being  master  over  your  own  legs  and  arms,  to 
have  your  flesh  and  blood  and  what  brains  God 
gave  you  buried  alive  in  stone  walls  as  though 
they  were  in  a  safe  with  a  time-lock  on  the 

210 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 

door  set  for  eight  months  ahead.  There's 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of  in  a  stone  wall  really, 
but  it's  the  idea  of  the  thing — of  not  being 
free  to  move  about,  especially  to  a  chap  that 
has  always  lived  in  the  open  as  I  have,  and  has 
had  men  under  him.  It  was  no  wonder  I  was 
in  a  funk  for  a  minute.  I'll  bet  a  fiver  the 
others  were,  too,  if  they'll  only  own  up  to  it. 
I  don't  mean  for  long,  but  just  when  the  idea 
first  laid  hold  of  them.  Anyway,  it  was  a  good 
lesson  to  me,  and  if  I  catch  myself  thinking 
of  it  again  I'll  whistle,  or  talk  to  myself  out 
loud  and  think  of  something  cheerful.  And  I 
don't  mean  to  be  one  of  those  chaps  who  spends 
his  time  in  jail  counting  the  stones  in  his  cell, 
or  training  spiders,  or  measuring  how  many  of 
his  steps  make  a  mile,  for  madness  lies  that 
way.  I  mean  to  sit  tight  and  think  of  all  the 
good  times  I've  had,  and  go  over  them  in  my 
mind  very  slowly,  so  as  to  make  them  last 
longer  and  remember  who  was  there  and  what 
we  said,  and  the  jokes  and  all  that;  I'll  go  over 
house-parties  I  have  been  on,  and  the  times 
I've  had  in  the  Riviera,  and  scou ting-parties 
Dr.  Jim  led  up  country  when  we  were  taking 
Matabele  Land. 

"They  say  that  if  you're  good  here  they 
give  you  things  to  read  after  a  month  or  two, 
and  then  I  can  read  up  all  those  instructive 

211 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 

books  that  a  fellow  never  does  read  until  he's 
laid  up  in  bed. 

"But  that's  crowding  ahead  a  bit;  I  must 
keep  to  what  happened  to-day.  We  struck 
York  Road  at  the  back  of  the  Great  Western 
Terminus,  and  I  half  hoped  we  might  see  some 
chap  we  knew  coming  or  going  away:  I  would 
like  to  have  waved  my  hand  to  him.  It  would 
have  been  fun  to  have  seen  his  surprise  the  next 
morning  when  he  read  in  the  paper  that  he  had 
been  bowing  to  jail-birds,  and  then  I  would 
like  to  have  cheated  the  tipstaves  out  of  just 
one  more  friendly  good-by.  I  wanted  to  say 
good-by  to  somebody,  but  I  really  couldn't 
feel  sorry  to  see  the  last  of  any  one  of  those  we 
passed  in  the  streets — they  were  such  a  dirty, 
unhappy-looking  lot,  and  the  railroad  wall  ran 
on  forever  apparently,  and  we  might  have 
been  in  a  foreign  country  for  all  we  knew  of  it. 
There  were  just  sooty  gray  brick  tenements 
and  gas-works  on  one  side,  and  the  railroad 
cutting  on  the  other,  and  semaphores  and 
telegraph  wires  overhead,  and  smoke  and  grime 
everywhere,  it  looked  exactly  like  the  sort  of 
street  that  should  lead  to  a  prison,  and  it 
seemed  a  pity  to  take  a  smart  hansom  and  a 
good  cob  into  it. 

"It  was  just  a  bit  different  from  our  last 
ride  together — when  we  rode  through  the  night 

212 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER 

from  Krugers-Dorp  with  hundreds  of  horses* 
hoofs  pounding  on  the  soft  veldt  behind  us,  and 
the  carbines  clanking  against  the  stirrups  as 
they  swung  on  the  sling  belts.  We  were  being 
hunted  then,  harassed  on  either  side,  scurrying 
for  our  lives  like  the  Derby  Dog  in  a  race-track 
when  every  one  hoots  him  and  no  man  steps 
out  to  help — we  were  sick  for  sleep,  sick  for 
food,  lashed  by  the  rain,  and  we  knew  that  we 
were  beaten;  but  we  were  free  still,  and  under 
open  skies  with  the  derricks  of  the  Rand  rising 
like  gallows  on  our  left,  and  Johannesburg 
only  fifteen  miles  away." 


213 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

A  YOUNG  man  runs  two  chances  of  marrying 
the  wrong  woman.  He  marries  her  because 
she  is  beautiful,  and  because  he  persuades 
himself  that  every  other  lovable  attribute  must 
be  associated  with  such  beauty,  or  because  she 
is  in  love  with  him.  If  this  latter  is  the  case, 
she  gives  certain  values  to  what  he  thinks  and 
to  what  he  says  which  no  other  woman  gives, 
and  so  he  observes  to  himself,  "This  is  the 
woman  who  best  understands  me" 

You  can  reverse  this  and  say  that  young 
women  run  the  same  risks,  but  as  men  are  sel 
dom  beautiful,  the  first  danger  is  eliminated. 
Women  still  marry  men,  however,  because 
they  are  loved  by  them,  and  in  time  the  woman 
grows  to  depend  upon  this  love  and  to  need  it, 
and  is  not  content  without  it,  and  so  she  con 
sents  to  marry  the  man  for  no  other  reason 
than  because  he  cares  for  her.  For  if  a  dog, 
even,  runs  up  to  you  wagging  his  tail  and 
acting  as  though  he  were  glad  to  see  you,  you 
pat  him  on  the  head  and  say,  "What  a  nice 
dog."  You  like  him  because  he  likes  you,  and 

214 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

not  because  he  belongs  to  a  fine  breed  of  animal 
and  could  take  blue  ribbons  at  bench  shows. 

This  is  the  story  of  a  young  man  who  was  in 
love  with  a  beautiful  woman,  and  who  allowed 
her  beauty  to  compensate  him  for  many  other 
things.  When  she  failed  to  understand  what 
he  said  to  her  he  smiled  and  looked  at  her 
and  forgave  her  at  once,  and  when  she  began 
to  grow  uninteresting,  he  would  take  up  his 
hat  and  go  away,  and  so  he  never  knew  how 
very  uninteresting  she  might  possibly  be  if  she 
were  given  time  enough  in  which  to  demonstrate 
the  fact.  He  never  considered  that,  were  he 
married  to  her,  he  could  not  take  up  his  hat 
and  go  away  when  she  became  uninteresting, 
and  that  her  remarks,  which  were  not  brilliant, 
could  not  be  smiled  away  either.  They  would 
rise  up  and  greet  him  every  morning,  and  would 
be  the  last  thing  he  would  hear  at  night. 

Miss  Delamar's  beauty  was  so  conspicuous 
that  to  pretend  not  to  notice  it  was  more 
foolish  than  well-bred.  You  got  along  more 
easily  and  simply  by  accepting  it  at  once,  and 
referring  to  it,  and  enjoying  its  effect  upon 
other  people.  To  go  out  of  one's  way  to  talk 
of  other  things  when  every  one,  even  Miss 
Delamar  herself,  knew  what  must  be  uppermost 
in  your  mind,  always  seemed  as  absurd  as  to 
strain  a  point  in  politeness,  and  to  pretend  not 

215 


MISS  DELAMAR'S   UNDERSTUDY 

to  notice  that  a  guest  had  upset  his  claret,  or 
any  other  embarrassing  fact.  For  Miss  Dela- 
mar's  beauty  was  so  distinctly  embarrassing 
that  this  was  the  only  way  to  meet  it — to  smile 
and  pass  it  over  and  to  try,  if  possible,  to  get 
on  to  something  else.  It  was  on  account  of 
this  extraordinary  quality  in  her  appearance 
that  every  one  considered  her  beauty  as  some 
thing  which  transcended  her  private  ownership, 
and  which  belonged  by  right  to  the  polite 
world  at  large,  to  any  one  who  could  appreciate 
it  properly,  just  as  though  it  were  a  sunset  or 
a  great  work  of  art  or  of  nature.  And  so, 
when  she  gave  away  her  photographs  no  one 
thought  it  meant  anything  more  serious  than  a 
recognition  on  her  part  of  the  fact  that  it 
would  have  been  unkind  and  selfish  in  her  not 
to  have  shared  the  enjoyment  of  so  much  love 
liness  with  others. 

Consequently,  when  she  sent  one  of  her 
largest  and  most  aggravatingly  beautiful  photo 
graphs  to  young  Stuart,  it  was  no  sign  that  she 
cared  especially  for  him. 

How  much  young  Stuart  cared  for  Miss 
Delamar,  however,  was  an  open  question  and  a 
condition  yet  to  be  discovered.  That  he  cared 
for  some  one,  and  cared  so  much  that  his  imagi 
nation  had  begun  to  picture  the  awful  joys  and 
responsibilities  of  marriage,  was  only  too  well 

216 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

known  to  himself,  and  was  a  state  of  mind 
already  suspected  by  his  friends. 

Stuart  was  a  member  of  the  New  York  bar, 
and  the  distinguished  law  firm  to  which  he 
belonged  .was  very  proud  of  its  junior  member, 
and  treated  him  with  indulgence  and  affection, 
which  was  not  unmixed  with  amusement.  For 
Stuart's  legal  knowledge  had  been  gathered  in 
many  odd  corners  of  the  globe,  and  was  various 
and  peculiar.  It  had  been  his  pleasure  to 
study  the  laws  by  which  men  ruled  other  men 
in  every  condition  of  life,  and  under  every  sun. 
The  regulations  of  a  new  mining  camp  were 
fraught  with  as  great  interest  to  him  as  the 
accumulated  precedents  of  the  English  Con 
stitution,  and  he  had  investigated  the  rulings 
of  the  mixed  courts  of  Egypt  and  of  the  govern 
ment  of  the  little  Dutch  republic  near  the  Cape 
with  as  keen  an  effort  to  comprehend  as  he 
had  shown  in  studying  the  laws  of  the  American 
colonies  and  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Massa 
chusetts. 

But  he  was  not  always  serious,  and  it  some 
times  happened  that  after  he  had  arrived  at 
some  queer  little  island  where  the  native  prince 
and  the  English  governor  sat  in  judgment 
together,  his  interest  in  the  intricacies  of  their 
laws  would  give  way  to  the  more  absorbing 
occupation  of  chasing  wild  boar  or  shooting  at 

217 


MISS  DELAMAR'S   UNDERSTUDY 

tigers  from  the  top  of  an  elephant.  And  so  he 
was  not  only  regarded  as  an  authority  on  many 
forms  of  government  and  of  law,  into  which 
no  one  else  had  ever  taken  the  trouble  to  look, 
but  his  books  on  big  game  were  eagerly  read 
and  his  articles  in  the  magazines  were  earnestly 
discussed,  whether  they  told  of  the  divorce 
laws  of  Dakota,  and  the  legal  rights  of  widows 
in  Cambodia,  or  the  habits  of  the  Mexican  lion. 

Stuart  loved  his  work  better  than  he  knew, 
but  how  well  he  loved  Miss  Delamar  neither  he 
nor  his  friends  could  tell.  She  was  the  most 
beautiful  and  lovely  creature  that  he  had  ever 
seen,  and  of  that  only  was  he  certain. 

Stuart  was  sitting  in  the  club  one  day  when 
the  conversation  turned  to  matrimony.  He 
was  among  his  own  particular  friends,  the  men 
before  whom  he  could  speak  seriously  or  fool 
ishly  without  fear  of  being  misunderstood  or 
of  having  what  he  said  retold  and  spoiled  in 
the  telling.  There  was  Seldon,  the  actor,  and 
Rives,  who  painted  pictures,  and  young  Sloane, 
who  travelled  for  pleasure  and  adventure,  and 
Weimer,  who  stayed  at  home  and  wrote  for  the 
reviews.  They  were  all  bachelors,  and  very 
good  friends,  and  jealously  guarded  their  little 
circle  from  the  intrusion  of  either  men  or 
women. 

"Of  course  the  chief  objection  to  marriage," 
218 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

Stuart  said — it  was  the  very  day  in  which  the 
picture  had  been  sent  to  his  rooms — "is  the  old 
one  that  you  can't  tell  anything  about  it  until 
you  are  committed  to  it  forever.  It  is  a  very 
silly  thing  to  discuss  even,  because  there  is  no 
way  of  bringing  it  about,  but  there  really  should 
be  some  sort  of  a  preliminary  trial.  As  the 
man  says  in  the  play,  'You  wouldn't  buy  a 
watch  without  testing  it  first/  You  don't 
buy  a  hat  even  without  putting  it  on,  and 
finding  out  whether  it  is  becoming  or  not,  or 
whether  your  peculiar  style  of  ugliness  can 
stand  it.  And  yet  men  go  gayly  off  and  get 
married,  and  make  the  most  awful  promises, 
and  alter  their  whole  order  of  life,  and  risk  the 
happiness  of  some  lovely  creature  on  trust,  as 
it  were,  knowing  absolutely  nothing  of  the  new 
conditions  and  responsibilities  of  the  life  before 
them.  Even  a  river-pilot  has  to  serve  an 
apprenticeship  before  he  gets  a  license,  and  yet 
we  are  allowed  to  take  just  as  great  risks,  and 
only  because  we  want  to  take  them.  It's 
awful,  and  it's  all  wrong." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  what  one  is  going  to  do 
about  it,"  commented  young  Sloane,  lightly, 
"except  to  get  divorced.  That  road  is  always 
open." 

Sloane  was  starting  the  next  morning  for  the 
Somali  Country,  in  Abyssinia,  to  shoot  rhinoc- 

219 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

eros,  and  his  interest  in  matrimony  was  in  con 
sequence  somewhat  slight. 

"It  isn't  the  fear  of  the  responsibilities  that 
keeps  Stuart,  nor  any  one  of  us  back,"  said 
Weimer,  contemptuously.  "It's  because  we're 
selfish.  That's  the  whole  truth  of  the  matter. 
We  love  our  work,  or  our  pleasure,  or  to  knock 
about  the  world,  better  than  we  do  any  partic 
ular  woman.  When  one  of  us  comes  to  love  the 
woman  best,  his  conscience  won't  trouble  him 
long  about  the  responsibilities  of  marrying 
her." 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Stuart.  "I  am  quite 
sincere;  I  maintain  that  there  should  be  a 
preliminary  stage.  Of  course  there  can't  be, 
and  it's  absurd  to  think  of  it,  but  it  would  save 
a  lot  of  unhappiness." 

"Well,"  said  Seldon,  dryly,  "when  you've 
invented  a  way  to  prevent  marriage  from  being 
a  lottery,  let  me  know,  will  you?"  He  stood 
up  and  smiled  nervously.  "Any  of  you  coming 
to  see  us  to-night?"  he  asked. 

"That's  so,"  exclaimed  Weimer;  "I  forgot. 
It's  the  first  night  of  'A  Fool  and  His  Money/ 
isn't  it?  Of  course  we're  coming." 

"I  told  them  to  put  a  box  away  for  you  in 
case  you  wanted  it,"  Seldon  continued.  "Don't 
expect  much.  It's  a  silly  piece,  and  I've  a 
silly  part,  and  I'm  very  bad  in  it.  You  must 

220 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

come  around  to  supper,  and  tell  me  where  I'm 
bad  in  it,  and  we  will  talk  it  over.  You're 
coming,  Stuart?" 

"My  dear  old  man,"  said  Stuart,  reproach 
fully,  "of  course  I  am.  I've  had  my  seats  for 
the  last  three  weeks.  Do  you  suppose  I  could 
miss  hearing  you  mispronounce  all  the  Hindo- 
stanee  I've  taught  you?" 

"Well,  good-night  then,"  said  the  actor, 
waving  his  hand  to  his  friends  as  he  moved 
away.  'We,  who  are  about  to  die,  salute 
you!'" 

"Good  luck  to  you,"  said  Sloane,  holding  up 
his  glass.  "To  the  Fool  and  His  Money,"  he 
laughed.  He  turned  to  the  table  again,  and 
sounded  the  bell  for  the  waiter.  "Now  let's 
send  him  a  telegram  and  wish  him  success,  and 
all  sign  it,"  he  said,  "and  don't  you  fellows 
tell  him  that  I  wasn't  in  front  to-night.  I've 
got  to  go  to  a  dinner  the  Travellers'  Club  are 
giving  me."  There  was  a  protesting  chorus  of 
remonstrance.  "Oh,  I  don't  like  it  any  better 
than  you  do,"  said  Sloane,  "but  I'll  get  away 
early  and  join  you  before  the  play's  over.  No 
one  in  the  Travellers'  Club,  you  see,  has  ever 
travelled  farther  from  New  York  than  London 
or  the  Riviera,  and  so  when  a  member  starts 
for  Abyssinia  they  give  him  a  dinner,  and  he 
has  to  take  himself  very  seriously  indeed,  and 

221 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

cry  with  Seldon,  *  I,  who  am  about  to  die,  salute 
you!'  If  that  man  there  was  any  use,"  he 
added,  interrupting  himself  and  pointing  with 
his  glass  at  Stuart,  "he'd  pack  up  his  things  to 
night  and  come  with  me." 

"Oh,  don't  urge  him,"  remonstrated  Weimer, 
who  had  travelled  all  over  the  world  in  imagina 
tion,  with  the  aid  of  globes  and  maps,  but 
never  had  got  any  farther  from  home  than 
Montreal.  "We  can't  spare  Stuart.  He  has 
to  stop  here  and  invent  a  preliminary  marriage 
state,  so  that  if  he  finds  he  doesn't  like  a  girl, 
he  can  leave  her  before  it  is  too  late." 

"You  sail  at  seven,  I  believe,  and  from 
Hoboken,  don't  you?"  asked  Stuart,  undis 
turbed.  "If  you'll  start  at  eleven  from  the 
New  York  side,  I  think  I'll  go  with  you,  but  I 
hate  getting  up  early;  and  then  you  see — I 
know  what  dangers  lurk  in  Abyssinia,  but  who 
could  tell  what  might  not  happen  to  him  in 
Hoboken?" 

When  Stuart  returned  to  his  room,  he  found  a 
large  package  set  upright  in  an  armchair  and 
enveloped  by  many  wrappings;  but  the  hand 
writing  on  the  outside  told  him  at  once  from 
whom  it  came  and  what  it  might  be,  and  he 
pounced  upon  it  eagerly  and  tore  it  from  its 
covers.  The  photograph  was  a  very  large  one, 
and  the  likeness  to  the  original  so  admirable 

222 


MISS  DELAMAR'S   UNDERSTUDY 

that  the  face  seemed  to  smile  and  radiate  with 
all  the  loveliness  and  beauty  of  Miss  Delamar 
herself.  Stuart  beamed  upon  it  with  genuine 
surprise  and  pleasure,  and  exclaimed  delightedly 
to  himself.  There  was  a  living  quality  about 
the  picture  which  made  him  almost  speak  to 
it,  and  thank  Miss  Delamar  through  it  for 
the  pleasure  she  had  given  him  and  the  honor 
she  had  bestowed.  He  was  proud,  flattered, 
and  triumphant,  and  while  he  walked  about 
the  room  deciding  where  he  would  place  it,  and 
holding  the  picture  respectfully  before  him,  he 
smiled  upon  it  with  grateful  satisfaction. 

He  decided  against  his  dressing-table  as  being 
too  intimate  a  place  for  it,  and  so  carried  the 
picture  on  from  his  bedroom  to  the  dining- 
room  beyond,  where  he  set  it  among  his  silver 
on  the  sideboard.  But  so  little  of  his  time  was 
spent  in  this  room  that  he  concluded  he  would 
derive  but  little  pleasure  from  it  there,  and  so 
bore  it  back  again  into  his  library,  where  there 
were  many  other  photographs  and  portraits, 
and  where  to  other  eyes  than  his  own  it  would 
be  less  conspicuous. 

He  tried  it  first  in  one  place  and  then  in 
another;  but  in  each  position  the  picture  pre 
dominated  and  asserted  itself  so  markedly, 
that  Stuart  gave  up  the  idea  of  keeping  it 
inconspicuous,  and  placed  it  prominently  over 

223 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

the  fireplace,  where  it  reigned  supreme  above 
every  other  object  in  the  room.  It  was  not 
only  the  most  conspicuous  object  there,  but  the 
living  quality  which  it  possessed  in  so  marked 
a  degree,  and  which  was  due  to  its  naturalness 
of  pose  and  the  excellence  of  the  likeness,  made 
it  permeate  the  place  like  a  presence  and  with 
the  individuality  of  a  real  person.  Stuart  ob 
served  this  effect  with  amused  interest,  and 
noted  also  that  the  photographs  of  other  women 
had  become  commonplace  in  comparison  like 
lithographs  in  a  shop-window,  and  that  the 
more  masculine  accessories  of  a  bachelor's 
apartment  had  grown  suddenly  aggressive  and 
out  of  keeping.  The  liquor-case  and  the  racks 
of  arms  and  of  barbarous  weapons  which  he 
had  collected  with  such  pride  seemed  to  have 
lost  their  former  value  and  meaning,  and  he 
instinctively  began  to  gather  up  the  mass  of 
books  and  maps  and  photographs  and  pipes 
and  gloves  which  lay  scattered  upon  the  table, 
and  to  put  them  in  their  proper  place,  or  to 
shove  them  out  of  sight  altogether.  "If  I'm 
to  live  up  to  that  picture,"  he  thought,  "  I  must 
see  that  George  keeps  this  room  in  better  order 
— and  I  must  stop  wandering  round  here  in 
my  bath-robe." 

His  mind  continued  on  the  picture  while  he 
was  dressing,  and  he  was  so  absorbed  in  it  and 

224 


MISS    DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

in  analyzing  the  effect  it  had  had  upon  him, 
that  his  servant  spoke  twice  before  he  heard  him. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  shall  not  dine  here 
to-night."  Dining  at  home  was  with  him  a 
very  simple  affair,  and  a  somewhat  lonely  one, 
and  he  avoided  it  almost  nightly  by  indulging 
himself  in  a  more  expensive  fashion. 

But  even  as  he  spoke  an  idea  came  to  Stuart 
which  made  him  reconsider  his  determination, 
and  which  struck  him  as  so  amusing,  that  he 
stopped  pulling  at  his  tie  and  smiled  delightedly 
at  himself  in  the  glass  before  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  still  smiling,  "I  will  dine 
here  to-night.  Get  me  anything  in  a  hurry. 
You  need  not  wait  now;  go  get  the  dinner  up 
as  soon  as  possible." 

The  effect  which  the  photograph  of  Miss 
Delamar  had  upon  him,  and  the  transformation 
it  had  accomplished  in  his  room,  had  been  as 
great  as  would  have  marked  the  presence  there 
of  the  girl  herself.  While  considering  this  it 
had  come  to  Stuart,  like  a  flash  of  inspiration, 
that  here  was  a  way  by  which  he  could  test  the 
responsibilities  and  conditions  of  married  life 
without  compromising  either  himself  or  the 
girl  to  whom  he  would  suppose  himself  to  be 
married. 

"I  will  put  that  picture  at  the  head  of  the 
table,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  play  that  it  is  she 

225 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

herself,  her  own  beautiful,  lovely  self,  and  I 
will  talk  to  her  and  exchange  views  with  her, 
and  make  her  answer  me  just  as  she  would  were 
we  actually  married  and  settled."  He  looked 
at  his  watch  and  found  it  was  just  seven  o'clock. 
"I  will  begin  now,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  keep 
up  the  delusion  until  midnight.  To-night  is 
the  best  time  to  try  the  experiment,  because 
the  picture  is  new  now,  and  its  influence  will 
be  all  the  more  real.  In  a  few  weeks  it  may 
have  lost  some  of  its  freshness  and  reality  and 
will  have  become  one  of  the  fixtures  in  the 
room." 

Stuart  decided  that  under  these  new  condi 
tions  it  would  be  more  pleasant  to  dine  at 
Delmonico's,  and  he  was  on  the  point  of  asking 
the  Picture  what  she  thought  of  it,  when  he 
remembered  that  while  it  had  been  possible 
for  him  to  make  a  practise  of  dining  at  that 
place  as  a  bachelor,  he  could  not  now  afford  so 
expensive  a  luxury,  and  he  decided  that  he  had 
better  economize  in  that  particular  and  go 
instead  to  one  of  the  table  d'hote  restaurants  in 
the  neighborhood.  He  regretted  not  having 
thought  of  this  sooner,  for  he  did  not  care  to 
dine  at  a  table  d'hote  in  evening  dress,  as  in  some 
places  it  rendered  him  conspicuous.  So,  sooner 
than  have  this  happen  he  decided  to  dine  at 
home,  as  he  had  originally  intended  when  he 

226 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

first  thought  of  attempting  this  experiment, 
and  then  conducted  the  Picture  in  to  dinner 
and  placed  her  in  an  armchair  facing  him,  with 
the  candles  full  upon  the  face. 

"Now  this  is  something  like,"  he  exclaimed, 
joyously.  "I  can't  imagine  anything  better 
than  this.  Here  we  are  all  to  ourselves  with 
no  one  to  bother  us,  with  no  chaperon,  or 
chaperon's  husband  either,  which  is  generally 
worse.  Why  is  it,  my  dear,"  he  asked,  gayly, 
in  a  tone  he  considered  affectionate  and  hus 
bandly,  "that  the  attractive  chaperons  are 
always  handicapped  by  such  stupid  husbands, 
and  vice  versa?" 

"If  that  is  true,"  replied  the  Picture,  or 
replied  Stuart,  rather,  for  the  Picture,  "  I  cannot 
be  a  very  attractive  chaperon."  Stuart  bowed 
politely  at  this,  and  then  considered  the  point 
it  had  raised  as  to  whether  he  had,  in  assuming 
both  characters,  the  right  to  pay  himself  com 
pliments.  He  decided  against  himself  in  this 
particular  instance,  but  agreed  that  he  was  not 
responsible  for  anything  the  Picture  might  say, 
so  long  as  he  sincerely  and  fairly  tried  to  make 
it  answer  him  as  he  thought  the  original  would 
do  under  like  circumstances.  From  what  he 
knew  of  the  original  under  other  conditions,  he 
decided  that  he  could  give  a  very  close  imitation 
of  her  point  of  view. 

227 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

Stuart's  interest  in  his  dinner  was  so  real  that 
he  found  himself  neglecting  his  wife,  and  he  had 
to  pull  himself  up  to  his  duty  with  a  sharp  re 
proof.  After  smiling  back  at  her  for  a  moment 
or  two  until  his  servant  had  again  left  them 
alone,  he  asked  her  to  tell  him  what  she  had 
been  doing  during  the  day. 

"Oh,  nothing  very  important,"  said  the 
Picture.  "I  went  shopping  in  the  morning 
and " 

Stuart  stopped  himself  and  considered  this 
last  remark  doubtfully.  "Now,  how  do  I 
know  she  would  go  shopping?"  he  asked  him 
self.  "People  from  Harlem  and  women  who 
like  bargain-counters,  and  who  eat  chocolate 
meringue  for  lunch,  and  then  stop  in  at  a  con 
tinuous  performance,  go  shopping.  It  must  be 
the  comic-paper  sort  of  wives  who  go  about 
matching  shades  and  buying  hooks  and  eyes. 
Yes,  I  must  have  made  Miss  Delamar's  under 
study  misrepresent  her.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
my  dear,"  he  said  aloud  to  the  Picture.  "You 
did  not  go  shopping  this  morning.  You  prob 
ably  went  to  a  woman's  luncheon  somewhere. 
Tell  me  about  that." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  went  to  lunch  with  the  Ant- 
werps,"  said  the  Picture,  "and  they  had  that 
Russian  woman  there  who  is  getting  up  sub 
scriptions  for  the  Siberian  prisoners.  It's  rather 

228 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

fine  of  her,  because  it  exiles  her  from  Russia. 
And  she  is  a  princess." 

"That's  nothing,"  Stuart  interrupted; 
"they're  all  princesses  when  you  see  them  on 
Broadway." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  Picture. 

"It's  of  no  consequence,"  said  Stuart,  apolo 
getically,  "it's  a  comic  song.  I  forgot  you 
didn't  like  comic  songs.  Well — go  on." 

"Oh,  then  I  went  to  a  tea,  and  then  I  stopped 
in  to  hear  Madame  Ruvier  read  a  paper  on  the 
Ethics  of  Ibsen,  and  she " 

Stuart's  voice  had  died  away  gradually,  and 
he  caught  himself  wondering  whether  he  had 
told  George  to  lay  in  a  fresh  supply  of  cigars. 
"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  briskly,  "I  was 
listening,  but  I  was  just  wondering  whether  I 
had  any  cigars  left.  You  were  saying  that  you 
had  been  at  Madame  Ruvier's,  and " 

"I  am  afraid  that  you  were  not  interested," 
said  the  Picture.  "Never  mind,  it's  my  fault. 
Sometimes  I  think  I  ought  to  do  things  of  more 
interest,  so  that  I  should  have  something  to 
talk  to  you  about  when  you  come  home." 

Stuart  wondered  at  what  hour  he  would 
come  home  now  that  he  was  married.  As  a 
bachelor  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  stopping 
on  his  way  up-town  from  the  law-office  at  the 
club,  or  to  take  tea  at  the  houses  of  the  different 

229 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

girls  he  liked.  Of  course  he  could  not  do  that 
now  as  a  married  man.  He  would  instead  have 
to  limit  his  calls  to  married  women,  as  all  the 
other  married  men  of  his  acquaintance  did. 
But  at  the  moment  he  could  not  think  of  any 
attractive  married  women  who  would  like  his 
dropping  in  on  them  in  such  a  familiar  manner, 
and  the  other  sort  did  not  as  yet  appeal  to  him. 

He  seated  himself  in  front  of  the  coal  fire  in 
the  library,  with  the  Picture  in  a  chair  close 
beside  him,  and  as  he  puffed  pleasantly  on  his 
cigar  he  thought  how  well  this  suited  him,  and 
how  delightful  it  was  to  find  content  in  so 
simple  and  continuing  a  pleasure.  He  could 
almost  feel  the  pressure  of  his  wife's  hand  as  it 
lay  in  his  own,  as  they  sat  in  silent  sympathy 
looking  into  the  friendly  glow  of  the  fire. 

There  was  a  long,  pleasant  pause. 

"They're  giving  Sloane  a  dinner  to-night  at 
the  'Travellers',"  Stuart  said,  at  last,  "in 
honor  of  his  going  to  Abyssinia." 

Stuart  pondered  for  some  short  time  as  to 
what  sort  of  a  reply  Miss  Delamar's  under 
study  ought  to  make  to  this  innocent  remark. 
He  recalled  the  fact  that  on  numerous  occasions 
the  original  had  shown  not  only  a  lack  of  knowl 
edge  of  far-away  places,  but,  what  was  more 
trying,  a  lack  of  interest  as  well.  For  the 
moment  he  could  not  see  her  robbed  of  her 

230 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

pretty  environment  and  tramping  through  undis 
covered  countries  at  his  side.  So  the  Picture's 
reply,  when  it  came,  was  strictly  in  keeping 
with  several  remarks  which  Miss  Delamar  her 
self  had  made  to  him  in  the  past. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Picture,  politely,  "and  where 
is  Abyssinia — in  India,  isn't  it?" 

"No,  not  exactly,"  corrected  Stuart,  mildly; 
"you  pass  it  on  your  way  to  India,  though,  as 
you  go  through  the  Red  Sea.  Sloane  is  taking 
Winchesters  with  him  and  a  double  express 
and  a  'five  fifty.'  He  wants  to  test  their  pene 
tration.  I  think  myself  that  the  express  is  the 
best,  but  he  says  Selous  and  Chanler  think  very 
highly  of  the  Winchester.  I  don't  know,  I 
never  shot  a  rhinoceros.  The  time  I  killed 
that  elephant,"  he  went  on,  pointing  at  two 
tusks  that  stood  with  some  assegais  in  a  corner, 
"I  used  an  express,  and  I  had  to  let  go  with 
both  barrels.  I  suppose,  though,  if  I'd  needed 
a  third  shot,  I'd  have  wished  it  was  a  Winches 
ter.  He  was  charging  the  smoke,  you  see,  and 
I  couldn't  get  away  because  I'd  caught  my 
foot — but  I  told  you  about  that,  didn't  I?" 
Stuart  interrupted  himself  to  ask  politely. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Picture,  cheerfully,  "I  remem 
ber  it  very  well;  it  was  very  foolish  of  you." 

Stuart  straightened  himself  with  a  slightly 
injured  air  and  avoided  the  Picture's  eye.  He 

231 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

had  been  stopped  midway  in  what  was  one  of 
his  favorite  stories,  and  it  took  a  brief  space  of 
time  for  him  to  recover  himself,  and  to  sink 
back  again  into  the  pleasant  lethargy  in  which 
he  had  been  basking. 

"Still,"  he  said,  "I  think  the  express  is  the 
better  gun." 

"Oh,  is  an  *  express*  a  gun?"  exclaimed  the 
Picture,  with  sudden  interest.  "Of  course,  I 
might  have  known." 

Stuart  turned  in  his  chair,  and  surveyed  the 
Picture  in  some  surprise.  "But,  my  dear 
girl,"  he  remonstrated,  kindly,  "why  didn't 
you  ask,  if  you  didn't  know  what  I  was  talking 
about?  What  did  you  suppose  it  was?" 

"  I  didn't  know,"  said  the  Picture;  "  I  thought 
it  was  something  to  do  with  his  luggage.  Abys 
sinia  sounds  so  far  away,"  she  explained,  smiling 
sweetly.  "  You  can't  expect  one  to  be  interested 
in  such  queer  places,  can  you?" 

"No,"  Stuart  answered,  reluctantly,  and  look 
ing  steadily  at  the  fire,  "I  suppose  not.  But 
you  see,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "I'd  have  gone  with 
him  if  I  hadn't  married  you,  and  so  I  am  natu 
rally  interested  in  his  outfit.  They  wanted  me 
to  make  a  comparative  study  of  the  little  semi- 
independent  states  down  there,  and  of  how  far 
the  Italian  Government  allows  them  to  rule 
themselves.  That's  what  I  was  to  have  done." 

232 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

But  the  Picture  hastened  to  reassure  him. 
"Oh,  you  mustn't  think,"  she  exclaimed, 
quickly,  "that  I  mean  to  keep  you  at  home. 
I  love  to  travel,  too.  I  want  you  to  go  on 
exploring  places  just  as  you've  always  done, 
only  now  I  will  go  with  you.  We  might  do  the 
Cathedral  towns,  for  instance." 

"The  what?"  gasped  Stuart,  raising  his  head. 
"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  he  added,  hurriedly, 
sinking  back  into  his  chair  with  a  slightly 
bewildered  expression.  "That  would  be  very 
nice.  Perhaps  your  mother  would  like  to  go, 
too;  it's  not  a  dangerous  expedition,  is  it?  I 
was  thinking  of  taking  you  on  a  trip  through 
the  South  Seas — but  I  suppose  the  Cathedral 
towns  are  just  as  exciting.  Or  we  might  even 
penetrate  as  far  into  the  interior  as  the  English 
lakes  and  read  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  as 
we  go." 

Miss  Delamar's  understudy  observed  him 
closely  for  a  moment,  but  he  made  no  sign,  and 
so  she  turned  her  eyes  again  to  the  fire  with  a 
slightly  troubled  look.  She  had  not  a  strong 
sense  of  humor,  but  she  was  very  beautiful. 

Stuart's  conscience  troubled  him  for  the  next 
few  moments,  and  he  endeavored  to  make  up 
for  his  impatience  of  the  moment  before  by 
telling  the  Picture  how  particularly  well  she 
was  looking. 

233 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

"It  seems  almost  selfish  to  keep  it  all  to  my 
self,"  he  mused. 

"You  don't  mean,"  inquired  the  Picture, 
with  tender  anxiety,  "that  you  want  any  one 
else  here,  do  you?  I'm  sure  I  could  be  content 
to  spend  every  evening  like  this.  I've  had 
enough  of  going  out  and  talking  to  people  I 
don't  care  about.  Two  seasons,"  she  added, 
with  the  superior  air  of  one  who  has  put  away 
childish  things,  "was  quite  enough  of  it  for 
me." 

"Well,  I  never  took  it  as  seriously  as  that," 
said  Stuart,  "but,  of  course,  I  don't  want  any 
one  else  here  to  spoil  our  evening.  It  is  perfect." 

He  assured  himself  that  it  was  perfect,  but 
he  wondered  what  was  the  loyal  thing  for  a 
married  couple  to  do  when  the  conversation 
came  to  a  dead  stop.  And  did  the  conversation 
come  to  a  stop  because  they  preferred  to  sit 
in  silent  sympathy  and  communion,  or  because 
they  had  nothing  interesting  to  talk  about? 
Stuart  doubted  if  silence  was  the  truest  ex 
pression  of  the  most  perfect  confidence  and 
sympathy.  He  generally  found  when  he  was 
interested,  that  either  he  or  his  companion 
talked  all  the  time.  It  was  when  he  was  bored 
that  he  sat  silent.  But  it  was  probably  different 
with  married  people.  Possibly  they  thought  of 
each  other  during  these  pauses,  and  of  their 

234 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

own  affairs  and  interests,  and  then  he  asked 
himself  how  many  interests  could  one  fairly 
retain  with  which  the  other  had  nothing  to 
do? 

"I  suppose,"  thought  Stuart,  "that  I  had 
better  compromise  and  read  aloud.  Should 
you  like  me  to  read  aloud?"  he  asked,  doubt- 
fully. 

The  Picture  brightened  perceptibly  at  this, 
and  said  that  she  thought  that  would  be  charm 
ing.  "We  might  make  it  quite  instructive," 
she  suggested,  entering  eagerly  into  the  idea. 
"We  ought  to  agree  to  read  so  many  pages 
every  night.  Suppose  we  begin  with  Guizot's 
'History  of  France.'  I  have  always  meant  to 
read  that,  the  illustrations  look  so  interesting." 

"Yes,  we  might  do  that,"  assented  Stuart, 
doubtfully.  "It  is  in  six  volumes,  isn't  it? 
Suppose  now,  instead,"  he  suggested,  with  an 
impartial  air,  "we  begin  that  to-morrow  night, 
and  go  this  evening  to  see  Seldon's  new  play, 
'The  Fool  and  His  Money.'  It's  not  too  late, 
and  he  has  saved  a  box  for  us,  and  Weimer  and 
Rives  and  Sloane  will  be  there,  and " 

The  Picture's  beautiful  face  settled  for  just 
an  instant  in  an  expression  of  disappointment. 
"Of  course,"  she  replied,  slowly,  "if  you  wish 
it.  But  I  thought  you  said,"  she  went  on 
with  a  sweet  smile,  "that  this  was  perfect. 

235 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

Now  you  want  to  go  out  again.  Isn't  this 
better  than  a  hot  theatre?  You  might  put  up 
with  it  for  one  evening,  don't  you  think?" 

"Put  up  with  it!"  exclaimed  Stuart,  enthusi 
astically;  "I  could  spend  every  evening  so. 
It  was  only  a  suggestion.  It  wasn't  that  I 
wanted  to  go  so  much  as  that  I  thought  Seldon 
might  be  a  little  hurt  if  I  didn't.  But  I  can 
tell  him  you  were  not  feeling  very  well,  and  that 
we  will  come  some  other  evening.  He  generally 
likes  to  have  us  there  on  the  first  night,  that's 
all.  But  he'll  understand." 

"Oh,"  said  the  Picture,  "if  you  put  it  in  the 
light  of  a  duty  to  your  friend,  of  course  we  will 

go-" 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  Stuart,  heartily;  "I 
will  read  something.  I  should  really  prefer  it. 
How  would  you  like  something  of  Browning's?" 

"Oh,  I  read  all  of  Browning  once,"  said  the 
Picture.  "I  think  I  should  like  something 
new." 

Stuart  gasped  at  this,  but  said  nothing,  and 
began  turning  over  the  books  on  the  centre- 
table.  He  selected  one  of  the  monthly  maga 
zines,  and  choosing  a  story  which  neither  of 
them  had  read,  sat  down  comfortably  in  front 
of  the  fire,  and  finished  it  without  interruption 
and  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  Picture  and  him 
self.  The  story  had  made  the  half  hour  pass 

236 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

very  pleasantly,  and  they  both  commented  on 
it  with  interest. 

"  I  had  an  experience  once  myself  something 
like  that,"  said  Stuart,  with  a  pleased  smile  of 
recollection;  "it  happened  in  Paris" — he  began 
with  the  deliberation  of  a  man  who  is  sure  of 
his  story — "  and  it  turned  out  in  much  the  same 
way.  It  didn't  begin  in  Paris;  it  really  began 

while  we  were  crossing  the   English   Channel 
.  » 

"Oh,  you  mean  about  the  Russian  who  took 
you  for  some  one  else  and  had  you  followed," 
said  the  Picture.  "  Yes,  that  was  like  it,  except 
that  in  your  case  nothing  happened." 

Stuart  took  his  cigar  from  between  his  lips 
and  frowned  severely  at  the  lighted  end  for 
some  little  time  before  he  spoke. 

"My  dear,"  he  remonstrated,  gently,  "you 
mustn't  tell  me  I've  told  you  all  my  old  stories 
before.  It  isn't  fair.  Now  that  I  am  married, 
you  see,  I  can't  go  about  and  have  new  experi 
ences,  and  I've  got  to  make  use  of  the  old 
ones." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  exclaimed  the  Picture, 
remorsefully.  "I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude. 
Please  tell  me  about  it.  I  should  like  to  hear 
it  again,  ever  so  much.  I  should  like  to  hear  it 
again,  really." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Stuart,  laughing  and  shak- 
237 


MISS  DELAMAR'S  UNDERSTUDY 

ing  his  head.  "I  was  only  joking;  personally  I 
hate  people  who  tell  long  stories.  That  doesn't 
matter.  I  was  thinking  of  something  else/' 

He  continued  thinking  of  something  else, 
which  was,  that  though  he  had  been  in  jest  when 
he  spoke  of  having  given  up  the  chance  of 
meeting  fresh  experiences,  he  had  nevertheless 
described  a  condition,  and  a  painfully  true  one. 
His  real  life  seemed  to  have  stopped,  and  he 
saw  himself  in  the  future  looking  back  and  refer 
ring  to  it,  as  though  it  were  the  career  of  an 
entirely  different  person,  of  a  young  man,  with 
quick  sympathies  which  required  satisfying,  as 
any  appetite  requires  food.  And  he  had  an 
uncomfortable  doubt  that  these  many  ever- 
ready  sympathies  would  rebel  if  fed  on  only 
one  diet. 

The  Picture  did  not  interrupt  him  in  his 
thoughts,  and  he  let  his  mind  follow  his  eyes  as 
they  wandered  over  the  objects  above  him  on 
the  mantel-shelf.  They  all  meant  something 
from  the  past — a  busy,  wholesome  past  which 
had  formed  habits  of  thought  and  action, 
habits  he  could  no  longer  enjoy  alone,  and 
which,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  quite  impos 
sible  for  him  to  share  with  any  one  else.  He 
was  no  longer  to  be  alone. 

Stuart  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair  and  poked 
at  the  fire  before  him. 

238 


MISS  DELAMAR'S   UNDERSTUDY 

"Do  you  remember  the  day  you  came  to  see 
me,"  said  the  Picture,  sentimentally,  "and 
built  the  fire  yourself  and  lighted  some  girl's 
letters  to  make  it  burn?" 

" Yes,"  said  Stuart,  "that  is,  I  said  that  they 
were  some  girl's  letters.  It  made  it  more 
picturesque.  I  am  afraid  they  were  bills.  I 
should  say  I  did  remember  it,"  he  continued, 
enthusiastically.  "You  wore  a  black  dress  and 
little  red  slippers  with  big  black  rosettes,  and 
you  looked  as  beautiful  as — as  night — as  a 
moonlight  night." 

The  Picture  frowned  slightly. 

"You  are  always  telling  me  about  how  I 
looked,"  she  complained;  "can't  you  remember 
any  time  when  we  were  together  without 
remembering  what  I  had  on  and  how  I  ap 
peared?" 

"I  cannot,"  said  Stuart,  promptly.  "I  can 
recall  lots  of  other  things  besides,  but  I  can't 
forget  how  you  looked.  You  have  a  fashion  of 
emphasizing  episodes  in  that  way  which  is 
entirely  your  own.  But,  as  I  say,  I  can  remem 
ber  something  else.  Do  you  remember,  for 
instance,  when  we  went  up  to  West  Point  on 
that  yacht?  Wasn't  it  a  grand  day,  with  the 
autumn  leaves  on  both  sides  of  the  Hudson, 
and  the  dress  parade,  and  the  dance  afterward 
at  the  hotel?" 

239 


MISS   DELAMAR'S   UNDERSTUDY 

"Yes,  I  should  think  I  did,"  said  the  Picture, 
smiling.  "You  spent  all  your  time  examining 
cannon,  and  talking  to  the  men  about  'firing 
in  open  order/  and  left  me  all  alone." 

"Left  you  all  alone!  I  like  that,"  laughed 
Stuart;  "all  alone  with  about  eighteen  officers." 

"Well,  but  that  was  natural,"  returned  the 
Picture.  "They  were  men.  It's  natural  for  a 
girl  to  talk  to  men,  but  why  should  a  man 
want  to  talk  to  men?" 

"Well,  I  know  better  than  that  now,"  said 
Stuart. 

He  proceeded  to  show  that  he  knew  better 
by  remaining  silent  for  the  next  half  hour, 
during  which  time  he  continued  to  wonder 
whether  this  effort  to  keep  up  a  conversation 
was  not  radically  wrong.  He  thought  of  several 
things  he  might  say,  but  he  argued  that  it  was 
an  impossible  situation  where  a  man  had  to 
make  conversation  with  his  own  wife. 

The  clock  struck  ten  as  he  sat  waiting,  and 
he  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  Picture;  "what 
makes  you  so  restless?" 

Stuart  regarded  the  Picture  timidly  for  a 
moment  before  he  spoke.  "I  was  just  think 
ing,"  he  said,  doubtfully,  "that  we  might  run 
down  after  all,  and  take  a  look  in  at  the  last 
act;  it's  not  too  late  even  now.  They're  sure 

240 


MISS   DELAMAR'S   UNDERSTUDY 

to  run  behind  on  the  first  night.  And  then," 
he  urged,  "we  can  go  around  and  see  Seldon. 
You  have  never  been  behind  the  scenes,  have 
you?  It's  very  interesting." 

"No,  I  have  not;  but  if  we  do,"  remonstrated 
the  Picture,  pathetically,  "you  know  all  those 
men  will  come  trooping  home  with  us.  You 
know  they  will." 

"But  that's  very  complimentary,"  said  Stu 
art.  "Why,  I  like  my  friends  to  like  my  wife." 

"Yes,  but  you  know  how  they  stay  when  they 
get  here,"  she  answered;  "I  don't  believe  they 
ever  sleep.  Don't  you  remember  the  last 
supper  you  gave  me  before  we  were  married, 
when  Mrs.  Starr  and  you  all  were  discussing 
Mr.  Seldon's  play?  She  didn't  make  a  move 
to  go  until  half-past  two,  and  I  was  that  sleepy 
I  couldn't  keep  my  eyes  open." 

"Yes,"  said  Stuart,  "I  remember.  I'm  sorry. 
I  thought  it  was  very  interesting.  Seldon 
changed  the  whole  second  act  on  account  of 
what  she  said.  Well,  after  this,"  he  laughed 
with  cheerful  desperation,  "I  think  I  shall 
make  up  for  the  part  of  a  married  man  in  a 
pair  of  slippers  and  a  dressing-gown,  and  then 
perhaps  I  won't  be  tempted  to  roam  abroad  at 
night." 

"You  must  wear  the  gown  they  are  going  to 
give  you  at  Oxford,"  said  the  Picture,  smiling 

241 


MISS   DELAMAR'S   UNDERSTUDY 

placidly.  "The  one  Aunt  Lucy  was  telling  me 
about.  Why  do  they  give  you  a  gown?"  she 
asked.  "It  seems  such  an  odd  thing  to  do." 

"The  gown  comes  with  the  degree,  I  believe," 
said  Stuart. 

"But  why  do  they  give  you  a  degree?"  per 
sisted  the  Picture;  "you  never  studied  at  Oxford, 
did  you?" 

Stuart  moved  slightly  in  his  chair  and  shook 
his  head.  "I  thought  I  told  you,"  he  said, 
gently.  "No,  I  never  studied  there.  I  wrote 
some  books  on — things,  and  they  liked  them." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now,  you  did  tell  me," 
said  the  Picture;  "and  I  told  Aunt  Lucy  about 
it,  and  said  we  would  be  in  England  during  the 
season  when  you  got  your  degree,  and  she  said 
you  must  be  awfully  clever  to  get  it.  You 
see — she  does  appreciate  you,  and  you  always 
treat  her  so  distantly." 

"Do  I?"  said  Stuart,  quietly.     "I'm  sorry." 

"Will  you  have  your  portrait  painted  in  it?" 
asked  the  Picture. 

"In  what?" 

"In  the  gown.  You  are  not  listening,"  said 
the  Picture,  reproachfully.  "You  ought  to. 
Aunt  Lucy  says  it's  a  beautiful  shade  of  red 
silk,  and  very  long.  Is  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Stuart.  He  shook  his 
head,  and  dropping  his  chin  into  his  hands, 

242 


MISS   DELAMAR'S   UNDERSTUDY 

stared  coldly  down  into  the  fire.  He  tried  to 
persuade  himself  that  he  had  been  vainglorious, 
and  that  he  had  given  too  much  weight  to  the 
honor  which  the  University  of  Oxford  would 
bestow  upon  him;  that  he  had  taken  the  degree 
too  seriously,  and  that  the  Picture's  view  of  it 
was  the  view  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  But  he 
could  not  convince  himself  that  he  was  entirely 
at  fault. 

"Is  it  too  late  to  begin  on  Guizot?"  sug 
gested  his  Picture,  as  an  alternative  to  his  plan. 
"It  sounds  so  improving." 

"Yes,  it  is  much  too  late,"  answered  Stuart, 
decidedly.  "Besides,  I  don't  want  to  be  im 
proved.  I  want  to  be  amused,  or  inspired,  or 
scolded.  The  chief  good  of  friends  is  that  they 
do  one  of  these  three  things,  and  a  wife  should 
do  all  three." 

"Which  shall  I  do?"  asked  the  Picture,  smil 
ing  good-humoredly. 

Stuart  looked  at  the  beautiful  face  and  at  the 
reclining  figure  of  the  woman  to  whom  he  was 
to  turn  for  sympathy  for  the  rest  of  his  life, 
and  felt  a  cold  shiver  of  terror,  that  passed 
as  quickly  as  it  came.  He  reached  out  his 
hand  and  placed  it  on  the  arm  of  the  chair 
where  his  wife's  hand  should  have  been,  and 
patted  the  place  kindly.  He  would  shut  his 
eyes  to  everything  but  that  she  was  good  and 

243 


MISS   DELAMAR'S   UNDERSTUDY 

sweet  and  his  wife.  Whatever  else  she  lacked 
that  her  beauty  had  covered  up  and  hidden, 
and  the  want  of  which  had  Iain  unsuspected 
in  their  previous  formal  intercourse,  could  not 
be  mended  now.  He  would  settle  his  step  to 
hers,  and  eliminate  all  those  interests  from  his 
life  which  were  not  hers  as  well.  He  had 
chosen  a  beautiful  idol,  and  not  a  companion, 
for  a  wife.  He  had  tried  to  warm  his  hands  at 
the  fire  of  a  diamond. 

Stuart's  eyes  closed  wearily  as  though  to 
shut  out  the  memories  of  the  past,  or  the  fore 
knowledge  of  what  the  future  was  sure  to  be. 
His  head  sank  forward  on  his  breast,  and  with 
his  hand  shading  his  eyes,  he  looked  beyond, 
through  the  dying  fire,  into  the  succeeding 
years. 

The  gay  little  French  clock  on  the  table 
sounded  the  hour  of  midnight  briskly,  with  a 
pert,  insistent  clamor,  and  at  the  same  instant 
a  boisterous  and  unruly  knocking  answered  it 
from  outside  the  library  door. 

Stuart  rose  uncertainly  from  his  chair  and 
surveyed  the  tiny  clock  face  with  a  startled 
expression  of  bewilderment  and  relief. 

"Stuart!"  his  friends  called  impatiently  from 
the  hall.  "Stuart,  let  us  in  I"  and  without  wait 
ing  further  for  recognition  a  merry  company  of 

244 


MISS   DELAMAR'S    UNDERSTUDY 

gentlemen  pushed  their  way  noisily  into  the 
room. 

"Where  the  devil  have  you  been?"  demanded 
Weimer.  "You  don't  deserve  to  be  spoken  to 
at  all  after  quitting  us  like  that.  But  Seldon 
is  so  good-natured,"  he  went  on,  "that  he  sent 
us  after  you.  It  was  a  great  success,  and  he 
made  a  rattling  good  speech,  and  you  missed 
the  whole  thing;  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself.  We've  asked  half  the  people  in 
front  to  supper — two  stray  Englishmen,  all  the 
Wilton  girls  and  their  governor,  and  the  chap 
that  wrote  the  play.  And  Seldon  and  his 
brother  Sam  are  coming  as  soon  as  they  get 
their  make-up  off.  Don't  stand  there  like 
that,  but  hurry.  What  have  you  been  do- 
ing?" 

Stuart  gave  a  nervous,  anxious  laugh.  "Oh, 
don't  ask  me,"  he  cried.  "It  was  awful.  I've 
been  trying  an  experiment,  and  I  had  to  keep 
it  up  until  midnight,  and — I'm  so  glad  you 
fellows  have  come,"  he  continued,  halting  mid 
way  in  his  explanation.  "I  was  blue." 

"You've  been  asleep  in  front  of  the  fire," 
said  young  Sloane,  "and  you've  been  dream- 
ing." 

"Perhaps,"  laughed  Stuart,  gayly,  "perhaps. 
But  I'm  awake  now,  in  any  event.  Sloane,  old 
man,"  he  cried,  dropping  both  hands  on  the 

245 


MISS   DELAMAR'S   UNDERSTUDY 

youngster's  shoulders,  "how  much  money  have 
you?  Enough  to  take  me  to  Gibraltar?  They 
can  cable  me  the  rest." 

"Hoorah!"  shouted  Sloane,  waltzing  from 
one  end  of  the  room  to  the  other.  "And  we're 
off  to  Ab-yss-in-ia  in  the  morn-ing,"  he  sang. 
"There's  plenty  in  my  money  belt,"  he  cried, 
slapping  his  side;  "you  can  hear  the  ten-pound 
notes  crackle  whenever  I  breathe,  and  it's  all 
yours,  my  dear  boy,  and  welcome.  And  I'll 
prove  to  you  that  the  Winchester  is  the  better 
gun." 

"All  right,"  returned  Stuart,  gayly,  "and  I'll 
try  to  prove  that  the  Italians  don't  know  how 
to  govern  a  native  state.  But  who  is  giving 
this  supper,  anyway?"  he  demanded.  "That 
is  the  main  thing — that's  what  I  want  to 
know." 

"You've  got  to  pack,  haven't  you?"  sug 
gested  Rives. 

"I'll  pack  when  I  get  back,"  said  Stuart, 
struggling  into  his  greatcoat,  and  searching  in 
his  pockets  for  his  gloves.  "Besides,  my  things 
are  always  ready  and  there's  plenty  of  time; 
the  boat  doesn't  leave  for  six  hours  yet." 

"We'll  all  come  back  and  help,"  said  Weimer. 

"Then  I'll  never  get  away,"  laughed  Stuart. 
He  was  radiant,  happy,  and  excited,  like  a  boy 
back  from  school  for  the  holidays.  But  when 

246 


MISS   DELAMAR'S    UNDERSTUDY 

they  had  reached  the  pavement,  he  halted  and 
ran  his  hand  down  into  his  pocket,  as  though 
feeling  for  his  latch-key,  and  stood  looking 
doubtfully  at  his  friends. 

"What  is  it  now?"  asked  Rives,  impatiently. 
"Have  you  forgotten  something?" 

Stuart  looked  back  at  the  front  door  in 
momentary  indecision. 

"Ye-es,"  he  answered.  "I  did  forget  some 
thing.  But  it  doesn't  matter,"  he  added,  cheer 
fully,  taking  Sloane's  arm. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  "and  so  Seldon  made  a 
hit,  did  he?  I  am  glad — and  tell  me,  old  man, 
how  long  will  we  have  to  wait  at  Gib  for  the 
P.  &  O.?" 

Stuart's  servant  had  heard  the  men  trooping 
down  the  stairs,  laughing  and  calling  to  one 
another  as  they  went,  and  judging  from  this 
that  they  had  departed  for  the  night,  he  put  out 
all  the  lights  in  the  library  and  closed  the  piano, 
and  lifted  the  windows  to  clear  the  room  of  the 
tobacco-smoke.  He  did  not  notice  the  beauti 
ful  photograph  sitting  upright  in  the  armchair 
before  the  fireplace,  and  so  left  it  alone  in  the 
deserted  library. 

The  cold  night-air  swept  in  through  the  open 
window  and  chilled  the  silent  room,  and  the 
dead  coals  in  the  grate  dropped  one  by  one  into 
the  fender  with  a  dismal  echoing  clatter;  but 

247 


MISS   DELAMAR'S    UNDERSTUDY 

the  Picture  still  sat  in  the  armchair  with  the 
same  graceful  pose  and  the  same  lovely  expres 
sion,  and  smiled  sweetly  at  the  encircling 
darkness. 


248 


THE  Old  Time  Journalist  will  tell  you  that 
the  best  reporter  is  the  one  who  works  his  way 
up.  He  holds  that  the  only  way  to  start  is  as 
a  printer's  devil  or  as  an  office  boy,  to  learn  in 
time  to  set  type,  to  graduate  from  a  compositor 
into  a  stenographer,  and  as  a  stenographer 
take  down  speeches  at  public  meetings,  and  so 
finally  grow  into  a  real  reporter,  with  a  fire 
badge  on  your  left  suspender,  and  a  speaking 
acquaintance  with  all  the  greatest  men  in  the 
city,  not  even  excepting  Police  Captains. 

That  is  the  old  time  journalist's  idea  of  it. 
That  is  the  way  he  was  trained,  and  that  is 
why  at  the  age  of  sixty  he  is  still  a  reporter. 
If  you  train  up  a  youth  in  this  way,  he  will  go 
into  reporting  with  too  full  a  knowledge  of  the 
newspaper  business,  with  no  illusions  concern 
ing  it,  and  with  no  ignorant  enthusiasms,  but 
with  a  keen  and  justifiable  impression  that  he 
is  not  paid  enough  for  what  he  does.  And  he 
will  only  do  what  he  is  paid  to  do. 

249 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

Now,  you  cannot  pay  a  good  reporter  for  what 
he  does,  because  he  does  not  work  for  pay.  He 
works  for  his  paper.  He  gives  his  time,  his 
health,  his  brains,  his  sleeping  hours,  and  his 
eating  hours,  and  sometimes  his  life,  to  get 
news  for  it.  He  thinks  the  sun  rises  only  that 
men  may  have  light  by  which  to  read  it.  But 
if  he  has  been  in  a  newspaper  office  from  his 
youth  up,  he  finds  out  before  he  becomes  a 
reporter  that  this  is  not  so,  and  loses  his  real 
value.  He  should  come  right  out  of  the  Uni 
versity  where  he  has  been  doing  "campus 
notes"  for  the  college  weekly,  and  be  pitch 
forked  out  into  city  work  without  knowing 
whether  the  Battery  is  at  Harlem  or  Hunter's 
Point,  and  with  the  idea  that  he  is  a  Moulder 
of  Public  Opinion  and  that  the  Power  of  the 
Press  is  greater  than  the  Power  of  Money,  and 
that  the  few  lines  he  writes  are  of  more  value 
in  the  Editor's  eyes  than  is  the  column  of  adver 
tising  on  the  last  page,  which  they  are  not. 

After  three  years — it  is  sometimes  longer, 
sometimes  not  so  long — he  finds  out  that  he  has 
given  his  nerves  and  his  youth  and  his  enthu 
siasm  in  exchange  for  a  general  fund  of  miscel 
laneous  knowledge,  the  opportunity  of  personal 
encounter  with  all  the  greatest  and  most  remark 
able  men  and  events  that  have  risen  in  those 
three  years,  and  a  great  fund  of  resource  and 

250 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

patience.  He  will  find  that  he  has  crowded 
the  experiences  of  the  lifetime  of  the  ordinary 
young  business  man,  doctor,  or  lawyer,  or  man 
about  town,  into  three  short  years;  that  he 
has  learned  to  think  and  to  act  quickly,  to  be 
patient  and  unmoved  when  every  one  else  has 
lost  his  head,  actually  or  figuratively  speaking; 
to  write  as  fast  as  another  man  can  talk,  and 
to  be  able  to  talk  with  authority  on  matters  of 
which  other  men  do  not  venture  even  to  think 
until  they  have  read  what  he  has  written  with 
a  copy-boy  at  his  elbow  on  the  night  previous. 

It  is  necessary  for  you  to  know  this,  that  you 
may  understand  what  manner  of  man  young 
Albert  Gordon  was. 

Young  Gordon  had  been  a  reporter  just  three 
years.  He  had  left  Yale  when  his  last  living 
relative  died,  and  had  taken  the  morning  train 
for  New  York,  where  they  had  promised  him 
reportorial  work  on  one  of  the  innumerable 
Greatest  New  York  Dailies.  He  arrived  at  the 
office  at  noon,  and  was  sent  back  over  the  same 
road  on  which  he  had  just  come,  to  Spuyten 
Duyvil,  where  a  train  had  been  wrecked  and 
everybody  of  consequence  to  suburban  New 
York  killed.  One  of  the  old  reporters  hurried 
him  to  the  office  again  with  his  "copy,'*  and 
after  he  had  delivered  that,  he  was  sent  to  the 
Tombs  to  talk  French  to  a  man  in  Murderers' 

251 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

Row,  who  could  not  talk  anything  else,  but  who 
had  shown  some  international  skill  in  the  use  of  a 
jimmy.  And  at  eight,  he  covered  a  flower-show 
in  Madison  Square  Garden;  and  at  eleven  was 
sent  over  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  in  a  cab  to  watch 
a  fire  and  make  guesses  at  the  losses  to  the 
insurance  companies. 

He  went  to  bed  at  one,  and  dreamed  of  shat 
tered  locomotives,  human  beings  lying  still 
with  blankets  over  them,  rows  of  cells,  and 
banks  of  beautiful  flowers  nodding  their  heads 
to  the  tunes  of  the  brass  band  in  the  gallery. 
He  decided  when  he  awoke  the  next  morning 
that  he  had  entered  upon  a  picturesque  and 
exciting  career,  and  as  one  day  followed  another, 
he  became  more  and  more  convinced  of  it, 
and  more  and  more  devoted  to  it.  He  was 
twenty  then,  and  he  was  now  twenty-three, 
and  in  that  time  had  become  a  great  reporter, 
and  had  been  to  Presidential  conventions  in 
Chicago,  revolutions  in  Hayti,  Indian  outbreaks 
on  the  Plains,  and  midnight  meetings  of  moon 
lighters  in  Tennessee,  and  had  seen  what  work 
earthquakes,  floods,  fire,  and  fever  could  do  in 
great  cities,  and  had  contradicted  the  President, 
and  borrowed  matches  from  burglars.  And 
now  he  thought  he  would  like  to  rest  and 
breathe  a  bit,  and  not  to  work  again  unless  as 
a  war  correspondent.  The  only  obstacle  to  his 

252 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

becoming  a  great  war  correspondent  lay  in  the 
fact  that  there  was  no  war,  and  a  war  cor 
respondent  without  a  war  is  about  as  absurd  an 
individual  as  a  general  without  an  army.  He 
read  the  papers  every  morning  on  the  elevated 
trains  for  war  clouds;  but  though  there  were 
many  war  clouds,  they  always  drifted  apart, 
and  peace  smiled  again.  This  was  very  disap 
pointing  to  young  Gordon,  and  he  became 
more  and  more  keenly  discouraged. 

And  then  as  war  work  was  out  of  the  question, 
he  decided  to  write  his  novel.  It  was  to  be  a 
novel  of  New  York  life,  and  he  wanted  a  quiet 
place  in  which  to  work  on  it.  He  was  already 
making  inquiries  among  the  suburban  residents 
of  his  acquaintance  for  just  such  a  quiet  spot, 
when  he  received  an  offer  to  go  to  the  Island  of 
Opeki  in  the  North  Pacific  Ocean,  as  secretary 
to  the  American  consul  at  that  place.  The 
gentleman  who  had  been  appointed  by  the 
President  to  act  as  consul  at  Opeki  was  Captain 
Leonard  T.  Travis,  a  veteran  of  the  Civil  War, 
who  had  contracted  a  severe  attack  of  rheu 
matism  while  camping  out  at  night  in  the  dew, 
and  who  on  account  of  this  souvenir  of  his 
efforts  to  save  the  Union  had  allowed  the  Union 
he  had  saved  to  support  him  in  one  office  or 
another  ever  since.  He  had  met  young  Gordon 
at  a  dinner,  and  had  had  the  presumption  to  ask 

253 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

him  to  serve  as  his  secretary,  and  Gordon, 
much  to  his  surprise,  had  accepted  his  offer. 
The  idea  of  a  quiet  life  in  the  tropics  with  new 
and  beautiful  surroundings,  and  with  nothing 
to  do  and  plenty  of  time  in  which  to  do  it,  and 
to  write  his  novel  besides,  seemed  to  Albert  to 
be  just  what  he  wanted;  and  though  he  did  not 
know  nor  care  much  for  his  superior  officer,  he 
agreed  to  go  with  him  promptly,  and  proceeded 
to  say  good-by  to  his  friends  and  to  make  his 
preparations.  Captain  Travis  was  so  delighted 
with  getting  such  a  clever  young  gentleman  for 
his  secretary,  that  he  referred  to  him  to  his 
friends  as  "my  attache  of  legation";  nor  did 
he  lessen  that  gentleman's  dignity  by  telling 
any  one  that  the  attache's  salary  was  to  be  five 
hundred  dollars  a  year.  His  own  salary  was 
only  fifteen  hundred  dollars;  and  though  his 
brother-in-law,  Senator  Rainsford,  tried  his  best 
to  get  the  amount  raised,  he  was  unsuccess 
ful.  The  consulship  to  Opeki  was  instituted 
early  in  the  '50*5,  to  get  rid  of  and  reward  a 
third  or  fourth  cousin  of  the  President's,  whose 
services  during  the  campaign  were  important, 
but  whose  after-presence  was  embarrassing. 
He  had  been  created  consul  to  Opeki  as  being 
more  distant  and  unaccessible  than  any  other 
known  spot,  and  had  lived  and  died  there; 
and  so  little  was  known  of  the  island,  and  so 

254 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

difficult  was  communication  with  it,  that  no 
one  knew  he  was  dead,  until  Captain  Travis, 
in  his  hungry  haste  for  office,  had  uprooted  the 
sad  fact.  Captain  Travis,  as  well  as  Albert, 
had  a  secondary  reason  for  wishing  to  visit 
Opeki.  His  physician  had  told  him  to  go  to 
some  warm  climate  for  his  rheumatism,  and  in 
accepting  the  consulship  his  object  was  rather 
to  follow  out  his  doctor's  orders  at  his  country's 
expense,  than  to  serve  his  country  at  the  expense 
of  his  rheumatism. 

Albert  could  learn  but  very  little  of  Opeki; 
nothing,  indeed,  but  that  it  was  situated  about 
one  hundred  miles  from  the  Island  of  Octavia, 
which  island,  in  turn,  was  simply  described  as 
a  coaling-station  three  hundred  miles  distant 
from  the  coast  of  California.  Steamers  from 
San  Francisco  to  Yokohama  stopped  every 
third  week  at  Octavia,  and  that  was  all  that 
either  Captain  Travis  or  his  secreatry  could 
learn  of  their  new  home.  This  was  so  very 
little,  that  Albert  stipulated  to  stay  only  as 
long  as  he  liked  it,  and  to  return  to  the  States 
within  a  few  months  if  he  found  such  a  change 
of  plan  desirable. 

As  he  was  going  to  what  was  an  almost  undis 
covered  country,  he  thought  it  would  be  advis 
able  to  furnish  himself  with  a  supply  of  articles 
with  which  he  might  trade  with  the  native 

255 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

Opekians,  and  for  this  purpose  he  purchased  a 
large  quantity  of  brass  rods,  because  he  had 
read  that  Stanley  did  so,  and  added  to  these 
brass  curtain-chains,  and  about  two  hundred 
leaden  medals  similar  to  those  sold  by  street 
peddlers  during  the  Constitutional  Centennial 
Celebration  in  New  York  City. 

He  also  collected  even  more  beautiful  but 
less  expensive  decorations  for  Christmas-trees, 
at  a  wholesale  house  on  Park  Row.  These  he 
hoped  to  exchange  for  furs  or  feathers  or  weap 
ons,  or  for  whatever  other  curious  and  valuable 
trophies  the  Island  of  Opeki  boasted.  He 
already  pictured  his  rooms  on  his  return  hung 
fantastically  with  crossed  spears  and  boome 
rangs,  feather  head-dresses,  and  ugly  idols. 

His  friends  told  him  that  he  was  doing  a 
very  foolish  thing,  and  argued  that  once  out  of 
the  newspaper  world,  it  would  be  hard  to  regain 
his  place  in  it.  But  he  thought  the  novel  that 
he  would  write  while  lost  to  the  world  at  Opeki 
would  serve  to  make  up  for  his  temporary 
absence  from  it,  and  he  expressly  and  impres 
sively  stipulated  that  the  editor  should  wire 
him  if  there  was  a  war. 

Captain  Travis  and  his  secretary  crossed  the 
continent  without  adventure,  and  took  passage 
from  San  Francisco  on  the  first  steamer  that 
touched  at  Octavia.  They  reached  that  island 

256 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

in  three  days,  and  learned  with  some  concern 
that  there  was  no  regular  communication  with 
Opeki,  and  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  charter 
a  sailboat  for  the  trip.  Two  fishermen  agreed 
to  take  them  and  their  trunks,  and  to  get  them 
to  their  destination  within  sixteen  hours  if  the 
wind  held  good.  It  was  a  most  unpleasant 
sail.  The  rain  fell  with  calm,  relentless  per 
sistence  from  what  was  apparently  a  clear  sky; 
the  wind  tossed  the  waves  as  high  as  the  mast 
and  made  Captain  Travis  ill;  and  as  there  was 
no  deck  to  the  big  boat,  they  were  forced  to 
huddle  up,  under  pieces  of  canvas,  and  talked 
but  little.  Captain  Travis  complained  of  fre 
quent  twinges  of  rheumatism,  and  gazed  for 
lornly  over  the  gunwale  at  the  empty  waste 
of  water. 

"If  I've  got  to  serve  a  term  of  imprisonment 
on  a  rock  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean  for  four 
years,"  he  said,  "  I  might  just  as  well  have  done 
something  first  to  deserve  it.  This  is  a  pretty 
way  to  treat  a  man  who  bled  for  his  country. 
This  is  gratitude,  this  is."  Albert  pulled  heavily 
on  his  pipe,  and  wiped  the  rain  and  spray  from 
his  face  and  smiled. 

"Oh,  it  won't  be  so  bad  when  we  get  there," 
he  said;  "they  say  these  Southern  people  are 
always  hospitable,  and  the  whites  will  be  glad 
to  see  any  one  from  the  States." 

257 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

"There  will  be  a  round  of  diplomatic  dinners," 
said  the  consul,  with  an  attempt  at  cheerful 
ness.  "I  have  brought  two  uniforms  to  wear 
at  them." 

It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  the 
rain  ceased,  and  one  of  the  black,  half-naked 
fishermen  nodded  and  pointed  at  a  little  low  line 
on  the  horizon. 

"Opeki,"  he  said.  The  line  grew  in  length 
until  it  proved  to  be  an  island  with  great  moun 
tains  rising  to  the  clouds,  and,  as  they  drew 
nearer  and  nearer,  showed  a  level  coast  running 
back  to  the  foot  of  the  mountains  and  covered 
with  a  forest  of  palms.  They  next  made  out  a 
village  of  thatched  huts  around  a  grassy  square, 
and  at  some  distance  from  the  village  a  wooden 
structure  with  a  tin  roof. 

"  I  wonder  where  the  town  is  ?"  asked  the 
consul,  with  a  nervous  glance  at  the  fishermen. 
One  of  them  told  him  that  what  he  saw  was 
the  town. 

"That?"  gasped  the  consul.  "Is  that  where 
all  the  people  on  the  island  live?" 

The  fisherman  nodded;  but  the  other  added 
that  there  were  other  natives  further  back  in 
the  mountains,  but  that  they  were  bad  men 
who  fought  and  ate  each  other.  The  consul 
and  his  attache  of  legation  gazed  at  the  moun 
tains  with  unspoken  misgivings.  They  were 

258 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

quite  near  now,  and  could  see  an  immense 
crowd  of  men  and  women,  all  of  them  black, 
and  clad  but  in  the  simplest  garments,  waiting 
to  receive  them.  They  seemed  greatly  excited 
and  ran  in  and  out  of  the  huts,  and  up  and  down 
the  beach,  as  wildly  as  so  many  black  ants. 
But  in  the  front  of  the  group  they  distinguished 
three  men  who  they  could  see  were  white, 
though  they  were  clothed,  like  the  others, 
simply  in  a  shirt  and  a  short  pair  of  trousers. 
Two  of  these  three  suddenly  sprang  away  on  a 
run  and  disappeared  among  the  palm-trees;  but 
the  third  one,  when  he  recognized  the  American 
flag  in  the  halyards,  threw  his  straw  hat  in  the 
water  and  began  turning  handsprings  over  the 
sand. 

"That  young  gentleman,  at  least,"  said  Al 
bert,  gravely,  "seems  pleased  to  see  us." 

A  dozen  of  the  natives  sprang  into  the  water 
and  came  wading  and  swimming  toward  them, 
grinning  and  shouting  and  swinging  their 
arms. 

"I  don't  think  it's  quite  safe,  do  you?"  said 
the  consul,  looking  out  wildly  to  the  open  sea. 
"You  see,  they  don't  know  who  I  am." 

A  great  black  giant  threw  one  arm  over  the 
gunwale  and  shouted  something  that  sounded 
as  if  it  were  spelt  Owah,  Owah,  as  the  boat 
carried  him  through  the  surf. 

259 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  Gordon,  doubtfully. 
The  boat  shook  the  giant  off  under  the  wave 
and  beached  itself  so  suddenly  that  the  Ameri 
can  consul  was  thrown  forward  to  his  knees. 
Gordon  did  not  wait  to  pick  him  up,  but  jumped 
out  and  shook  hands  with  the  young  man  who 
had  turned  handsprings,  while  the  natives 
gathered  about  them  in  a  circle  and  chatted 
and  laughed  in  delighted  excitement. 

"I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you,"  said  the  young 
man,  eagerly.  "My  name's  Stedman.  I'm 
from  New  Haven,  Connecticut.  Where  are  you 
from?" 

"New  York,"  said  Albert.  "This,"  he  added, 
pointing  solemnly  to  Captain  Travis,  who  was 
still  on  his  knees  in  the  boat,  "is  the  American 
consul  to  Opeki."  The  American  consul  to 
Opeki  gave  a  wild  look  at  Mr.  Stedman  of 
New  Haven  and  at  the  natives. 

"See  here,  young  man,"  he  gasped,  "is  this 
all  there  is  of  Opeki?" 

"The  American  consul?"  said  young  Sted 
man,  with  a  gasp  of  amazement,  and  looking 
from  Albert  to  Captain  Travis.  "Why,  I  never 
supposed  they  would  send  another  here;  the 
last  one  died  about  fifteen  years  ago,  and  there 
hasn't  been  one  since.  I've  been  living  in  the 
consul's  office  with  the  Bradleys,  but  I'll  move 
out,  of  course.  I'm  sure  I'm  awfully  glad  to 

260 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

see  you.  It'll  make  it  so  much  more  pleasant 
for  me." 

"Yes,"  said  Captain  Travis,  bitterly,  as  he 
lifted  his  rheumatic  leg  over  the  boat;  "that's 
why  we  came." 

Mr.  Stedman  did  not  notice  this.  He  was 
too  much  pleased  to  be  anything  but  hospitable. 
"You  are  soaking  wet,  aren't  you?"  he  said; 
"and  hungry,  I  guess.  You  come  right  over 
to  the  consul's  office  and  get  on  some  other 
things." 

He  turned  to  the  natives  and  gave  some 
rapid  orders  in  their  language,  and  some  of 
them  jumped  into  the  boat  at  this,  and  began 
to  lift  out  the  trunks,  and  others  ran  off  toward 
a  large,  stout  old  native,  who  was  sitting 
gravely  on  a  log,  smoking,  with  the  rain  beating 
unnoticed  on  his  gray  hair. 

"They've  gone  to  tell  the  King,"  said  Sted 
man;  "but  you'd  better  get  something  to  eat 
first,  and  then  I'll  be  happy  to  present  you 
properly." 

"The  King,"  said  Captain  Travis,  with  some 
awe;  "is  there  a  king?" 

"I  never  saw  a  king,"  Gordon  remarked, 
"and  I'm  sure  I  never  expected  to  see  one 
sitting  on  a  log  in  the  rain." 

"He's  a  very  good  king,"  said  Stedman, 
confidentially;  "and  though  you  mightn't  think 

261 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

it  to  look  at  him,  he's  a  terrible  stickler  for 
etiquette  and  form.  After  supper  he'll  give 
you  an  audience;  and  if  you  have  any  tobacco, 
you  had  better  give  him  some  as  a  present,  and 
you'd  better  say  it's  from  the  President:  he 
doesn't  like  to  take  presents  from  common 
people,  he's  so  proud.  The  only  reason  he 
borrows  mine  is  because  he  thinks  I'm  the 
President's  son." 

"What  makes  him  think  that?"  demanded 
the  consul,  with  some  shortness.  Young  Mr. 
Stedman  looked  nervously  at  the  consul  and  at 
Albert,  and  said  that  he  guessed  some  one  must 
have  told  him. 

The  consul's  office  was  divided  into  four  rooms 
with  an  open  court  in  the  middle,  filled  with 
palms,  and  watered  somewhat  unnecessarily  by 
a  fountain. 

"I  made  that,"  said  Stedman,  in  a  modest, 
offhand  way.  "  I  made  it  out  of  hollow  bamboo 
reeds  connected  with  a  spring.  And  now  I'm 
making  one  for  the  King.  He  saw  this  and  had 
a  lot  of  bamboo  sticks  put  up  all  over  the  town, 
without  any  underground  connections,  and 
couldn't  make  out  why  the  water  wouldn't 
spurt  out  of  them.  And  because  mine  spurts, 
he  thinks  I'm  a  magician." 

"I  suppose,"  grumbled  the  consul,  "some  one 
told  him  that  too." 

262 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Mr.  Stedman,  uneasily. 

There  was  a  veranda  around  the  consul's 
office,  and  inside  the  walls  were  hung  with  skins, 
and  pictures  from  illustrated  papers,  and  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  bamboo  furniture,  and  four 
broad,  cool-looking  beds.  The  place  was  as 
clean  as  a  kitchen.  "I  made  the  furniture," 
said  Stedman,  "  and  the  Bradleys  keep  the  place 
in  order." 

"Who  are  the  Bradleys?"  asked  Albert. 

"The  Bradleys  are  those  two  men  you  saw 
with  me,"  said  Stedman;  "they  deserted  from 
a  British  man-of-war  that  stopped  here  for 
coal,  and  they  act  as  my  servants.  One  is 
Bradley,  Sr.,  and  the  other  Bradley,  Jr." 

"Then  vessels  do  stop  here  occasionally?" 
the  consul  said,  with  a  pleased  smile. 

"Well,  not  often,"  said  Stedman.  "Not  so 
very  often;  about  once  a  year.  The  Nelson 
thought  this  was  Octavia,  and  put  off  again  as 
soon  as  she  found  out  her  mistake,  but  the 
Bradleys  took  to  the  bush,  and  the  boat's  crew 
couldn't  find  them.  When  they  saw  your  flag, 
they  thought  you  might  mean  to  send  them 
back,  so  they  ran  off  to  hide  again;  they'll  be 
back,  though,  when  they  get  hungry." 

The  supper  young  Stedman  spread  for  his 
guests,  as  he  still  treated  them,  was  very  re 
freshing  and  very  good.  There  was  cold  fish 

263 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

and  pigeon  pie,  and  a  hot  omelet  filled  with 
mushrooms  and  olives  and  tomatoes  and  onions 
all  sliced  up  together,  and  strong  black  coffee. 
After  supper,  Stedman  went  off  to  see  the  King, 
and  came  back  in  a  little  while  to  say  that  his 
Majesty  would  give  them  an  audience  the  next 
day  after  breakfast.  "It  is  too  dark  now," 
Stedman  explained;  "and  it's  raining  so  that 
they  can't  make  the  street-lamps  burn.  Did 
you  happen  to  notice  our  lamps?  I  invented 
them;  but  they  don't  work  very  well  yet. 
I've  got  the  right  idea,  though,  and  I'll  soon 
have  the  town  illuminated  all  over,  whether  it 
rains  or  not." 

The  consul  had  been  very  silent  and  indif 
ferent,  during  supper,  to  all  around  him.  Now 
he  looked  up  with  some  show  of  interest. 

"How  much  longer  is  it  going  to  rain,  do  you 
think?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Stedman,  critically. 
"Not  more  than  two  months,  I  should  say." 
The  consul  rubbed  his  rheumatic  leg  and  sighed, 
but  said  nothing. 

The  Bradleys  returned  about  ten  o'clock, 
and  came  in  very  sheepishly.  The  consul  had 
gone  off  to  pay  the  boatmen  who  had  brought 
them,  and  Albert  in  his  absence  assured  the 
sailors  that  there  was  not  the  least  danger  of 
their  being  sent  away.  Then  he  turned  into 

264 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

one  of  the  beds,  and  Stedman  took  one  in  an 
other  room,  leaving  the  room  he  had  occupied 
heretofore  for  the  consul.  As  he  was  saying 
good-night,  Albert  suggested  that  he  had  not 
yet  told  them  how  he  came  to  be  on  a  deserted 
island;  but  Stedman  only  laughed  and  said 
that  that  was  a  long  story,  and  that  he  would 
tell  him  all  about  it  in  the  morning.  So  Albert 
went  off  to  bed  without  waiting  for  the  consul 
to  return,  and  fell  asleep,  wondering  at  the 
strangeness  of  his  new  life,  and  assuring  himself 
that  if  the  rain  only  kept  up,  he  would  have  his 
novel  finished  in  a  month. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  when  he  awoke, 
and  the  palm-trees  outside  were  nodding  grace 
fully  in  a  warm  breeze.  From  the  court  came 
the  odor  of  strange  flowers,  and  from  the  window 
he  could  see  the  ocean  brilliantly  blue,  and  with 
the  sun  coloring  the  spray  that  beat  against  the 
coral  reefs  on  the  shore. 

"Well,  the  consul  can't  complain  of  this," 
he  said,  with  a  laugh  of  satisfaction;  and  pulling 
on  a  bath-robe,  he  stepped  into  the  next  room 
to  awaken  Captain  Travis.  But  the  room  was 
quite  empty,  and  the  bed  undisturbed.  The 
consul's  trunk  remained  just  where  it  had  been 
placed  near  the  door,  and  on  it  lay  a  large  sheet 
of  foolscap,  with  writing  on  it,  and  addressed 
at  the  top  to  Albert  Gordon.  The  handwriting 

265 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

was  the  consul's.     Albert  picked  it  up  and  read 
it  with  much  anxiety.     It  began  abruptly 

The  fishermen  who  brought  us  to  this  forsaken  spot 
tell  me  that  it  rains  here  six  months  in  the  year,  and  that 
this  is  the  first  month.  I  came  here  to  serve  my  country, 
for  which  I  fought  and  bled,  but  I  did  not  come  here 
to  die  of  rheumatism  and  pneumonia.  I  can  serve  my 
country  better  by  staying  alive;  and  whether  it  rains  or 
not,  I  don't  like  it.  I  have  been  grossly  deceived,  and  I 
am  going  back.  Indeed,  by  the  time  you  get  this,  I 
will  be  on  my  return  trip,  as  I  intend  leaving  with  the 
men  who  brought  us  here  as  soon  as  they  can  get  the  sail 
up.  My  cousin,  Senator  Rainsford,  can  fix  it  all  right 
with  the  President,  and  can  have  me  recalled  in  proper 
form  after  I  get  back.  But  of  course  it  would  not  do  for 
me  to  leave  my  post  with  no  one  to  take  my  place,  and  no 
one  could  be  more  ably  fitted  to  do  so  than  yourself;  so 
I  feel  no  compunctions  at  leaving  you  behind.  I  hereby, 
therefore,  accordingly  appoint  you  my  substitute  with 
full  power  to  act,  to  collect  all  fees,  sign  all  papers,  and 
attend  to  all  matters  pertaining  to  your  office  as  American 
consul,  and  I  trust  you  will  worthily  uphold  the  name  of 
that  country  and  government  which  it  has  always  been 
my  pleasure  and  duty  to  serve. 

Your  sincere  friend  and  superior  officer, 

LEONARD  T.  TRAVIS. 

P.  S,  I  did  not  care  to  disturb  you  by  moving  my 
trunk,  so  I  left  it,  and  you  can  make  what  use  you  please 
of  whatever  it  contains,  as  I  shall  not  want  tropical 
garments  where  I  am  going.  What  you  will  need  most, 
I  think,  is  a  waterproof  and  umbrella. 

P.  S.  Look  out  for  that  young  man  Stedman.  He 
is  too  inventive.  I  hope  you  will  like  your  high  office; 
but  as  for  myself,  I  am  satisfied  with  little  old  New  York. 
Opeki  is  just  a  bit  too  far  from  civilization  to  suit  me. 

266 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

Albert  held  the  letter  before  him  and  read  it 
over  again  before  he  moved.  Then  he  jumped 
to  the  window.  The  boat  was  gone,  and  there 
was  not  a  sign  of  it  on  the  horizon. 

"The  miserable  old  hypocrite!"  he  cried, 
half  angry  and  half  laughing.  "If  he  thinks  I 
am  going  to  stay  here  alone  he  is  very  greatly 
mistaken.  And  yet,  why  not?"  he  asked.  He 
stopped  soliloquizing  and  looked  around  him, 
thinking  rapidly.  As  he  stood  there,  Stedman 
came  in  from  the  other  room,  fresh  and  smiling 
from  his  morning's  bath. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said,  "where's  the  con 
sul?" 

"The  consul,"  said  Albert,  gravely,  "is  before 
you.  In  me  you  see  the  American  consul  to 
Opeki. 

"Captain  Travis,"  Albert  explained,  "has 
returned  to  the  United  States.  I  suppose  he 
feels  that  he  can  best  serve  his  country  by  re 
maining  on  the  spot.  In  case  of  another  war, 
now,  for  instance,  he  would  be  there  to  save  it 
again." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked 
Stedman,  anxiously.  "You  will  not  run  away, 
too,  will  you?" 

Albert  said  that  he  intended  to  remain  where 
he  was  and  perform  his  consular  duties,  to 
appoint  him  his  secretary,  and  to  elevate  the 

267 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

United  States  in  the  opinion  of  the  Opekians 
above  all  other  nations. 

"They  may  not  think  much  of  the  United 
States  in  England,"  he  said;  "but  we  are  going 
to  teach  the  people  of  Opeki  that  America  is 
first  on  the  map  and  that  there  is  no  sec 
ond." 

"I'm  sure  it's  very  good  of  you  to  make  me 
your  secretary,"  said  Stedman,  with  some  pride. 
"I  hope  I  won't  make  any  mistakes.  What 
are  the  duties  of  a  consul's  secretary?" 

"That,"  said  Albert,  "I  do  not  know.  But 
you  are  rather  good  at  inventing,  so  you  can 
invent  a  few.  That  should  be  your  first  duty 
and  you  should  attend  to  it  at  once.  I  will 
have  trouble  enough  finding  work  for  myself. 
Your  salary  is  five  hundred  dollars  a  year; 
and  now,"  he  continued  briskly,  "we  want  to 
prepare  for  this  reception.  We  can  tell  the 
King  that  Travis  was  just  a  guard  of  honor  for 
the  trip,  and  that  I  have  sent  him  back  to  tell 
the  President  of  my  safe  arrival.  That  will 
keep  the  President  from  getting  anxious.  There 
is  nothing,"  continued  Albert,  "like  a  uniform 
to  impress  people  who  live  in  the  tropics,  and 
Travis,  it  so  happens,  has  two  in  his  trunk. 
He  intended  to  wear  them  on  State  occasions, 
and  as  I  inherit  the  trunk  and  all  that  is  in  it, 
I  intend  to  wear  one  of  the  uniforms,  and  you 

268 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

can  have  the  other.  But  I  have  first  choice, 
because  I  am  consul.'* 

Captain  Travis's  consular  outfit  consisted  of 
one  full  dress  and  one  undress  United  States 
uniform.  Albert  put  on  the  dress-coat  over  a 
pair  of  white  flannel  trousers,  and  looked 
remarkably  brave  and  handsome.  Stedman, 
who  was  only  eighteen  and  quite  thin,  did  not 
appear  so  well,  until  Albert  suggested  his  pad 
ding  out  his  chest  and  shoulders  with  towels. 
This  made  him  rather  warm,  but  helped  his 
general  appearance. 

"The  two  Bradleys  must  dress  up,  too,"  said 
Albert.  "  I  think  they  ought  to  act  as  a  guard 
of  honor,  don't  you?  The  only  things  I  have 
are  blazers  and  jerseys;  but  it  doesn't  much  mat 
ter  what  they  wear,  as  long  as  they  dress  alike." 

He  accordingly  called  in  the  two  Bradleys, 
and  gave  them  each  a  pair  of  the  captain's 
rejected  white  duck  trousers,  and  a  blue  jersey 
apiece,  with  a  big  white  Y  on  it. 

"The  students  of  Yale  gave  me  that,"  he 
said  to  the  younger  Bradley,  "in  which  to  play 
football,  and  a  great  man  gave  me  the  other. 
His  name  is  Walter  Camp;  and  if  you  rip  or 
soil  that  jersey,  I'll  send  you  back  to  England 
in  irons;  so  be  careful." 

Stedman  gazed  at  his  companions  in  their 
different  costumes,  doubtfully.  "It  reminds 

269 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

me,"  he  said,  "of  private  theatricals.  Of  the 
time  our  church  choir  played  *  Pinafore." 

"Yes,"  assented  Albert;  "but  I  don't  think 
we  look  quite  gay  enough.  I  tell  you  what  we 
need — medals.  You  never  saw  a  diplomat  with 
out  a  lot  of  decorations  and  medals." 

"Well,  I  can  fix  that,"  Stedman  said.  "I've 
got  a  trunkful.  I  used  to  be  the  fastest  bicycle- 
rider  in  Connecticut,  and  I've  got  all  my  prizes 
with  me." 

Albert  said  doubtfully  that  that  wasn't  exactly 
the  sort  of  medal  he  meant. 

"Perhaps  not,"  returned  Stedman,  as  he 
began  fumbling  in  his  trunk;  "but  the  King 
won't  know  the  difference.  He  couldn't  tell  a 
cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  from  a  medal  for 
the  tug  of  war." 

So  the  bicycle  medals,  of  which  Stedman 
seemed  to  have  an  innumerable  quantity,  were 
strung  in  profusion  over  Albert's  uniform,  and 
in  a  lesser  quantity  over  Stedman's;  while  a 
handful  of  leaden  ones,  those  sold  on  the  streets 
for  the  Constitutional  Centennial,  with  which 
Albert  had  provided  himself,  were  wrapped  up 
in  a  red  silk  handkerchief  for  presentation  to 
the  King;  with  them  Albert  placed  a  number  of 
brass  rods  and  brass  chains,  much  to  Stedman's 
delighted  approval. 

"That  is  a  very  good  idea,"  he  said.  "Demo- 
270 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

cratic  simplicity  is  the  right  thing  at  home,  of 
course;  but  when  you  go  abroad  and  mix  with 
crowned  heads,  you  want  to  show  them  that 
you  know  what's  what." 

"Well,"  said  Albert,  'gravely,  "I  sincerely 
hope  this  crowned  head  don't  know  what's  what. 
If  he  reads  'Connecticut  Agricultural  State  Fair. 
One  mile  bicycle  race.  First  Prize/  on  this 
badge,  when  we  are  trying  to  make  him  believe 
it's  a  war  medal,  it  may  hurt  his  feelings." 

Bradley,  Jr.,  went  ahead  to  announce  the 
approach  of  the  American  embassy,  which  he 
did  with  so  much  manner  that  the  King  deferred 
the  audience  a  half-hour,  in  order  that  he  might 
better  prepare  to  receive  his  visitors.  When 
the  audience  did  take  place,  it  attracted  the 
entire  population  to  the  green  spot  in  front  of 
the  King's  palace,  and  their  delight  and  excite 
ment  over  the  appearance  of  the  visitors  was 
sincere  and  hearty.  The  King  was  too  polite 
to  appear  much  surprised,  but  he  showed  his 
delight  over  his  presents  as  simply  and  openly 
as  a  child.  Thrice  he  insisted  on  embracing 
Albert,  and  kissing  him  three  times  on  the  fore 
head,  which,  Stedman  assured  him  in  a  side- 
whisper,  was  a  great  honor;  an  honor  which 
was  not  extended  to  the  secretary,  although  he 
was  given  a  necklace  of  animals'  claws  instead, 
with  which  he  was  better  satisfied. 

271 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

After  this  reception,  the  embassy  marched 
back  to  the  consul's  office,  surrounded  by  an 
immense  number  of  natives,  some  of  whom  ran 
ahead  and  looked  back  at  them,  and  crowded 
so  close  that  the  two  Bradleys  had  to  poke  at 
those  nearest  with  their  guns.  The  crowd 
remained  outside  the  office  even  after  the  pro 
cession  of  four  had  disappeared,  and  cheered. 
This  suggested  to  Gordon  that  this  would  be  a 
good  time  to  make  a  speech,  which  he  accord 
ingly  did,  Stedman  translating  it,  sentence  by 
sentence.  At  the  conclusion  of  this  effort, 
Albert  distributed  a  number  of  brass  rings 
among  the  married  men  present,  which  they 
placed  on  whichever  finger  fitted  best,  and 
departed  delighted. 

Albert  had  wished  to  give  the  rings  to  the 
married  women,  but  Stedman  pointed  out  to 
him  that  it  would  be  much  cheaper  to  give  them 
to  the  married  men;  for  while  one  woman  could 
only  have  one  husband,  one  man  could  have 
at  least  six  wives. 

"And  now,  Stedman,"  said  Albert,  after  the 
mob  had  gone,  "tell  me  what  you  are  doing  on 
this  island." 

"It's  a  very  simple  story,"  Stedman  said. 
"  I  am  the  representative,  or  agent,  or  operator, 
for  the  Yokohama  Cable  Company.  The  Yoko 
hama  Cable  Company  is  a  company  organized 

272 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

in  San  Francisco,  for  the  purpose  of  laying  a 
cable  to  Yokohama.  It  is  a  stock  company; 
and  though  it  started  out  very  well,  the  stock 
has  fallen  very  low.  Between  ourselves,  it  is 
not  worth  over  three  or  four  cents.  When  the 
officers  of  the  company  found  out  that  no  one 
would  buy  their  stock,  and  that  no  one  believed 
in  them  or  their  scheme,  they  laid  a  cable  to 
Octavia,  and  extended  it  on  to  this  island.  Then 
they  said  they  had  run  out  of  ready  money,  and 
would  wait  until  they  got  more  before  laying 
their  cable  any  farther.  I  do  not  think  they 
ever  will  lay  it  any  farther,  but  that  is  none  of  my 
business.  My  business  is  to  answer  cable  mes 
sages  from  San  Francisco,  so  that  the  people 
who  visit  the  home  office  can  see  that  at  least 
a  part  of  the  cable  is  working.  That  some 
times  impresses  them,  and  they  buy  stock. 
There  is  another  chap  over  in  Octavia,  who 
relays  all  my  messages  and  all  my  replies  to 
those  messages  that  come  to  me  through  him 
from  San  Francisco.  They  never  send  a  mes 
sage  unless  they  have  brought  some  one  to  the 
office  whom  they  want  to  impress,  and  who, 
they  think,  has  money  to  invest  in  the  Y.  C.  C. 
stock,  and  so  we  never  go  near  the  wire,  except 
at  three  o'clock  every  afternoon.  And  then 
generally  only  to  say  'How  are  you?'  or  'It's 
raining,'  or  something  like  that.  I've  been  say- 

273 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

ing  '  It's  raining/  now  for  the  last  three  months, 
but  to-day  I  will  say  that  the  new  consul  has 
arrived.  That  will  be  a  pleasant  surprise  for 
the  chap  in  Octavia,  for  he  must  be  tired  hearing 
about  the  weather.  He  generally  answers, 
'Here  too/  or  'So  you  said/  or  something  like 
that.  I  don't  know  what  he  says  to  the  home 
office.  He's  brighter  than  I  am,  and  that's 
why  they  put  him  between  the  two  ends.  He 
can  see  that  the  messages  are  transmitted  more 
fully  and  more  correctly,  in  a  way  to  please 
possible  subscribers." 

"Sort  of  copy  editor,"  suggested  Albert. 

"Yes,  something  of  that  sort,  I  fancy,"  said 
Stedman. 

They  walked  down  to  the  little  shed  on  the 
shore,  where  the  Y.  C.  C.  office  was  placed,  at 
three  that  day,  and  Albert  watched  Stedman 
send  off  his  message  with  much  interest.  The 
"chap  at  Octavia,"  on  being  informed  that  the 
American  consul  had  arrived  at  Opeki,  inquired, 
somewhat  disrespectfully,  "  Is  it  a  life  sentence?" 

"What  does  he  mean  by  that?"  asked  Albert. 

"I  suppose,"  said  his  secretary,  doubtfully, 
"that  he  thinks  it  a  sort  of  a  punishment  to  be 
sent  to  Opeki.  I  hope  you  won't  grow  to  think 


so." 


"Opeki  is  all  very  well,"  said  Gordon,  "or  it 
will  be  when  we  get  things  going  our  way." 

274 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

As  they  walked  back  to  the  office,  Albert 
noticed  a  brass  cannon,  perched  on  a  rock  at 
the  entrance  to  the  harbor.  This  had  been  put 
there  by  the  last  consul,  but  it  had  not  been 
fired  for  many  years.  Albert  immediately  or 
dered  the  two  Bradleys  to  get  it  in  order,  and 
to  rig  up  a  flag-pole  beside  it,  for  one  of  his 
American  flags,  which  they  were  to  salute 
every  night  when  they  lowered  it  at  sun 
down. 

"And  when  we  are  not  using  it,"  he  said, 
"the  King  can  borrow  it  to  celebrate  with,  if 
he  doesn't  impose  on  us  too  often.  The  royal 
salute  ought  to  be  twenty-one  guns,  I  think; 
but  that  would  use  up  too  much  powder,  so  he 
will  have  to  content  himself  with  two." 

"Did  you  notice,"  asked  Stedman,  that 
night,  as  they  sat  on  the  veranda  of  the  consul's 
house,  in  the  moonlight,  "how  the  people 
bowed  to  us  as  we  passed?" 

"Yes,"  Albert  said  he  had  noticed  it. 
"Why?" 

"Well,  they  never  saluted  me,"  replied  Sted 
man.  "That  sign  of  respect  is  due  to  the  show 
we  made  at  the  reception." 

"It  is  due  to  us,  in  any  event,"  said  the 
consul,  severely.  "I  tell  you,  my  secretary, 
that  we,  as  the  representatives  of  the  United 
States  Government,  must  be  properly  honored 

275 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

on  this  island.  We  must  become  a  power. 
And  we  must  do  so  without  getting  into  trouble 
with  the  King.  We  must  make  them  honor 
him,  too,  and  then  as  we  push  him  up,  we  will 
push  ourselves  up  at  the  same  time." 

"They  don't  think  much  of  consuls  in  Opeki," 
said  Stedman,  doubtfully.  "You  see  the  last 
one  was  a  pretty  poor  sort.  He  brought  the 
office  into  disrepute,  and  it  wasn't  really  until 
I  came  and  told  them  what  a  fine  country  the 
United  States  was,  that  they  had  any  opinion 
of  it  at  all.  Now  we  must  change  all  that." 

"That  is  just  what  we  will  do,"  said  Albert. 
"We  will  transform  Opeki  into  a  powerful  and 
beautiful  city.  We  will  make  these  people  work. 
They  must  put  up  a  palace  for  the  King,  and 
lay  out  streets,  and  build  wharves,  and  drain 
the  town  properly,  and  light  it.  I  haven't  seen 
this  patent  lighting  apparatus  of  yours,  but  you 
had  better  get  to  work  at  it  at  once,  and  I'll 
persuade  the  King  to  appoint  you  commissioner 
of  highways  and  gas,  with  authority  to  make  his 
people  toil.  And  I,"  he  cried,  in  free  enthu 
siasm,  "will  organize  a  navy  and  a  standing 
army.  Only,"  he  added,  with  a  relapse  of 
interest,  "there  isn't  anybody  to  fight." 

"There  isn't?"  said  Stedman,  grimly,  with  a 
scornful  smile.  "You  just  go  hunt  up  old 
Messenwah  and  the  Hillmen  with  your  standing 

276 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

army  once  and  you'll  get  all  the  fighting  you 
want." 

"The  Hillmen?"  said  Albert. 

"  The  Hillmen  are  the  natives  that  live  up 
there  in  the  hills,"  Stedman  said,  nodding  his 
head  toward  the  three  high  mountains  at  the 
other  end  of  the  island,  that  stood  out  blackly 
against  the  purple,  moonlit  sky.  "There  are 
nearly  as  many  of  them  as  there  are  Opekians, 
and  they  hunt  and  fight  for  a  living  and  for  the 
pleasure  of  it.  They  have  an  old  rascal  named 
Messenwah  for  a  king,  and  they  come  down 
here  about  once  every  three  months,  and  tear 
things  up." 

Albert  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Oh,  they  do,  do  they?"  he  said,  staring  up 
at  the  mountain-tops.  "They  come  down  here 
and  tear  up  things,  do  they?  Well,  I  think 
we'll  stop  that,  I  think  we'll  stop  that !  I 
don't  care  how  many  there  are.  I'll  get  the 
two  Bradleys  to  tell  me  all  they  know  about 
drilling,  to-morrow  morning,  and  we'll  drill 
these  Opekians,  and  have  sham  battles,  and 
attacks,  and  repulses,  until  I  make  a  lot  of 
wild,  howling  Zulus  out  of  them.  And  when 
the  Hillmen  come  down  to  pay  their  quarterly 
visit,  they'll  go  back  again  on  a  run.  At  least 
some  of  them  will,"  he  added,  ferociously. 
"Some  of  them  will  stay  right  here." 

277 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

"Dear  me,  dear  me!"  said  Stedman,  with 
awe;  "you  are  a  born  fighter,  aren't  you?" 

"Well,  you  wait  and  see,"  said  Gordon; 
"maybe  I  am.  I  haven't  studied  tactics  of 
war  and  the  history  of  battles,  so  that  I  might 
be  a  great  war  correspondent,  without  learning 
something.  And  there  is  only  one  king  on  this 
island,  and  that  is  old  Ollypybus  himself.  And 
I'll  go  over  and  have  a  talk  with  him  about  it 
to-morrow." 

Young  Stedman  walked  up  and  down  the 
length  of  the  veranda,  in  and  out  of  the  moon 
light,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his 
head  on  his  chest.  "You  have  me  all  stirred 
up,  Gordon,"  he  said;  "you  seem  so  confident 
and  bold,  and  you're  not  so  much  older  than  I 
am,  either." 

"My  training  has  been  different;  that's  all," 
said  the  reporter. 

"Yes,"  Stedman  said,  bitterly.  "I  have  been 
sitting  in  an  office  ever  since  I  left  school, 
sending  news  over  a  wire  or  a  cable,  and  you 
have  been  out  in  the  world,  gathering  it." 

"And  now,"  said  Gordon,  smiling,  and  put 
ting  his  arm  around  the  other  boy's  shoulders, 
"we  are  going  to  make  news  ourselves." 

"There  is  one  thing  I  want  to  say  to  you  before 
you  turn  in,"  said  Stedman.  "Before  you  sug 
gest  all  these  improvements  on  Ollypybus,  you 

278 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

must  remember  that  he  has  ruled  absolutely 
here  for  twenty  years,  and  that  he  does  not 
think  much  of  consuls.  He  has  only  seen  your 
predecessor  and  yourself.  He  likes  you  because 
you  appeared  with  such  dignity,  and  because 
of  the  presents;  but  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't 
suggest  these  improvements  as  coming  from 
yourself." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Gordon;  "who 
could  they  come  from?" 

"Well,"  said  Stedman,  "if  you  will  allow  me 
to  advise — and  you  see  I  know  these  people 
pretty  well — I  would  have  all  these  suggestions 
come  from  the  President  direct." 

"The  President!"  exclaimed  Gordon;  "but 
how?  What  does  the  President  know  or  care 
about  Opeki?  and  it  would  take  so  long — oh,  I 
see,  the  cable.  Is  that  what  you  have  been 
doing?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  only  once,"  said  Stedman,  guiltily; 
"that  was  when  he  wanted  to  turn  me  out  of 
the  consul's  office,  and  I  had  a  cable  that  very 
afternoon,  from  the  President,  ordering  me  to 
stay  where  I  was.  Ollypybus  doesn't  under 
stand  the  cable,  of  course,  but  he  knows  that  it 
sends  messages;  and  sometimes  I  pretend  to 
send  messages  for  him  to  the  President;  but 
he  began  asking  me  to  tell  the  President  to 
come  and  pay  him  a  visit,  and  I  had  to  stop  it." 

279 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

"I'm  glad  you  told  me,"  said  Gordon.  "The 
President  shall  begin  to  cable  to-morrow.  He 
will  need  an  extra  appropriation  from  Congress 
to  pay  for  his  private  cablegrams  alone.'* 

"And  there's  another  thing,"  said  Stedman. 
"In  all  your  plans,  you've  arranged  for  the 
people's  improvement,  but  not  for  their  amuse 
ment;  and  they  are  a  peaceful,  jolly,  simple 
sort  of  people,  and  we  must  please  them." 

"  Have  they  no  games  or  amusements  of  their 
own?"  asked  Gordon. 

"Well,  not  what  we  would  call  games." 

"Very  well,  then,  I'll  teach  them  base-ball. 
Foot-ball  would  be  too  warm.  But  that  plaza 
in  front  of  the  King's  bungalow,  where  his 
palace  is  going  to  be,  is  just  the  place  for  a 
diamond.  On  the  whole,  though,"  added  the 
consul,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  "you'd 
better  attend  to  that  yourself.  I  don't  think 
it  becomes  my  dignity  as  American  consul  to 
take  off  my  coat  and  give  lessons  to  young 
Opekians  in  sliding  to  bases;  do  you?  No;  I 
think  you'd  better  do  that.  The  Bradleys  will 
help  you,  and  you  had  better  begin  to-morrow. 
You  have  been  wanting  to  know  what  a  secre 
tary  of  legation's  duties  are,  and  now  you  know. 
It's  to  organize  base-ball  nines.  And  after  you 
get  yours  ready,"  he  added,  as  he  turned  into 
his  room  for  the  night,  "I'll  train  one  that  will 

280 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

sweep  yours  off  the  face  of  the  island.  For 
this  American  consul  can  pitch  three  curves." 

The  best  laid  plans  of  men  go  far  astray,  some 
times,  and  the  great  and  beautiful  city  that  was 
to  rise  on  the  coast  of  Opeki  was  not  built  in  a 
day.  Nor  was  it  ever  built.  For  before  the 
Bradleys  could  mark  out  the  foul-lines  for  the 
base-ball  field  on  the  plaza,  or  teach  their  stand 
ing  army  the  goose  step,  or  lay  bamboo  pipes 
for  the  water-mains,  or  clear  away  the  cactus 
for  the  extension  of  the  King's  palace,  the  Hill- 
men  paid  Opeki  their  quarterly  visit. 

Albert  had  called  on  the  King  the  next 
morning,  with  S  ted  man  as  his  interpreter,  as  he 
had  said  he  would,  and,  with  maps  and  sketches, 
had  shown  his  Majesty  what  he  proposed  to  do 
toward  improving  Opeki  and  ennobling  her 
king,  and  when  the  King  saw  Albert's  free-hand 
sketches  of  wharves  with  tall  ships  lying  at 
anchor,  and  rows  of  Opekian  warriors  with  the 
Bradleys  at  their  head,  and  the  design  for  his 
new  palace,  and  a  royal  sedan  chair,  he  believed 
that  these  things  were  already  his,  and  not 
still  only  on  paper,  and  he  appointed  Albert  his 
Minister  of  War,  Stedman  his  Minister  of 
Home  Affairs,  and  selected  two  of  his  wisest 
and  oldest  subjects  to  serve  them  as  joint  ad 
visers.  His  enthusiasm  was  even  greater  than 
Gordon's,  because  he  did  not  appreciate  the 

281 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

difficulties.  He  thought  Gordon  a  semi-god, 
a  worker  of  miracles,  and  urged  the  putting  up 
of  a  monument  to  him  at  once  in  the  public 
plaza,  to  which  Albert  objected,  on  the  ground 
that  it  would  be  too  suggestive  of  an  idol;  and 
to  which  Stedman  also  objected,  but  for  the 
less  unselfish  reason  that  it  would  "be  in  the 
way  of  the  pitcher's  box." 

They  were  feverishly  discussing  all  these  great 
changes,  and  Stedman  was  translating  as  rapidly 
as  he  could  translate,  the  speeches  of  four  dif 
ferent  men — for  the  two  counsellors  had  been 
called  in — all  of  whom  wanted  to  speak  at  once 
when  there  came  from  outside  a  great  shout, 
and  the  screams  of  women,  and  the  clashing  of 
iron,  and  the  pattering  footsteps  of  men  running. 

As  they  looked  at  one  another  in  startled 
surprise,  a  native  ran  into  the  room,  followed  by 
Bradley,  Jr.,  and  threw  himself  down  before 
the  King.  While  he  talked,  beating  his  hands 
and  bowing  before  Ollypybus,  Bradley,  Jr., 
pulled  his  forelock  to  the  consul,  and  told  how 
this  man  lived  on  the  far  outskirts  of  the 
village;  how  he  had  been  captured  while  out 
hunting,  by  a  number  of  the  Hillmen;  and  how 
he  had  escaped  to  tell  the  people  that  their 
old  enemies  were  on  the  war-path  again,  and 
rapidly  approaching  the  village. 

Outside,  the  women  were  gathering  in  the 
282 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

plaza,  with  the  children  about  them,  and  the 
men  were  running  from  hut  to  hut,  warning 
their  fellows,  and  arming  themselves  with  spears 
and  swords,  and  the  native  bows  and  arrows. 

"They  might  have  waited  until  we  had  that 
army  trained,"  said  Gordon,  in  a  tone  of  the 
keenest  displeasure.  "Tell  me,  quick,  what  do 
they  generally  do  when  they  come?" 

"Steal  all  the  cattle  and  goats,  and  a  woman 
or  two,  and  set  fire  to  the  huts  in  the  outskirts," 
replied  Stedman. 

"Well,  we  must  stop  them,"  said  Gordon, 
jumping  up.  "We  must  take  out  a  flag  of 
truce  and  treat  with  them.  They  must  be  kept 
off  until  I  have  my  army  in  working  order. 
It  is  most  inconvenient.  If  they  had  only 
waited  two  months,  now,  or  six  weeks  even,  we 
could  have  done  something;  but  now  we  must 
make  peace.  Tell  the  King  we  are  going  out 
to  fix  things  with  them,  and  tell  him  to  keep 
off  his  warriors  until  he  learns  whether  we 
succeed  or  fail." 

"But,  Gordon!"  gasped  Stedman.  "Albert! 
You  don't  understand.  Why,  man,  this  isn't 
a  street-fight  or  a  cane-rush.  They'll  stick  you 
full  of  spears,  dance  on  your  body,  and  eat  you, 
maybe.  A  flag  of  truce ! — you're  talking  non 
sense.  What  do  they  know  of  a  flag  of  truce?" 

"You're  talking  nonsense,  too,"  said  Albert, 

283 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

"and  you're  talking  to  your  superior  officer. 
If  you  are  not  with  me  in  this,  go  back  to  your 
cable,  and  tell  the  man  in  Octavia  that  it's  a 
warm  day,  and  that  the  sun  is  shining;  but  if 
you've  any  spirit  m  you — and  I  think  you 
have — run  to  the  office  and  get  my  Winchester 
rifles,  and  the  two  shot-guns,  and  my  revolvers, 
and  my  uniform,  and  a  lot  of  brass  things  for 
presents,  and  run  all  the  way  there  and  back. 
And  make  time.  Play  you're  riding  a  bicycle 
at  the  Agricultural  Fair." 

Stedman  did  not  hear  this  last,  for  he  was 
already  off  and  away,  pushing  through  the 
crowd,  and  calling  on  Bradley,  Sr.,  to  follow 
him.  Bradley,  Jr.,  looked  at  Gordon  with 
eyes  that  snapped,  like  a  dog  that  is  waiting 
for  his  master  to  throw  a  stone. 

"I  can  fire  a  Winchester,  sir,"  he  said.  "Old 
Tom  can't.  He's  no  good  at  long  range  'cept 
with  a  big  gun,  sir.  Don't  give  him  the  Win 
chester.  Give  it  to  me,  please,  sir." 

Albert  met  Stedman  in  the  plaza,  and  pulled 
off  his  blazer,  and  put  on  Captain  Travis's — 
now  his — uniform  coat,  and  his  white  pith 
helmet. 

"Now,  Jack,"  he  said,  "get  up  there  and  tell 
these  people  that  we  are  going  out  to  make 
peace  with  these  Hillmen,  or  bring  them  back 
prisoners  of  war.  Tell  them  we  are  the  pre- 
284 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

servers  of  their  homes  and  wives  and  children; 
and  you,  Bradley,  take  these  presents,  and 
young  Bradley,  keep  close  to  me,  and  carry 
this  rifle." 

Stedman's  speech  was  hot  and  wild  enough 
to  suit  a  critical  and  feverish  audience  before  a 
barricade  in  Paris.  And  when  he  was  through, 
Gordon  and  Bradley  punctuated  his  oration  by 
firing  off  the  two  Winchester  rifles  in  the  air, 
at  which  the  people  jumped  and  fell  on  their 
knees,  and  prayed  to  their  several  gods.  The 
fighting  men  of  the  village  followed  the  four 
white  men  to  the  outskirts,  and  took  up  their 
stand  there  as  Stedman  told  them  to  do,  and 
the  four  walked  on  over  the  roughly  hewn 
road,  to  meet  the  enemy. 

Gordon  walked  with  Bradley,  Jr.,  in  advance. 
Stedman  and  old  Tom  Bradley  followed  close 
behind  with  the  two  shot-guns,  and  the  presents 
in  a  basket. 

"Are  these  Hillmen  used  to  guns?"  asked 
Gordon.  Stedman  said  no,  they  were  not. 

"This  shot-gun  of  mine  is  the  only  one  on  the 
island,"  he  explained,  "and  we  never  came 
near  enough  them  before  to  do  anything  with 
it.  It  only  carries  a  hundred  yards.  The 
Opekians  never  make  any  show  of  resistance. 
They  are  quite  content  if  the  Hillmen  satisfy 
themselves  with  the  outlying  huts,  as  long  as 

285 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

they  leave  them  and  the  town  alone;  so  they 
seldom  come  to  close  quarters." 

The  four  men  walked  on  for  half  an  hour  or 
so  in  silence,  peering  eagerly  on  every  side; 
but  it  was  not  until  they  had  left  the  woods  and 
marched  out  into  the  level  stretch  of  grassy 
country  that  they  came  upon  the  enemy. 
The  Hillmen  were  about  forty  in  number,  and 
were  as  savage  and  ugly-looking  giants  as  any 
in  a  picture-book.  They  had  captured  a  dozen 
cows  and  goats,  and  were  driving  them  on 
before  them,  as  they  advanced  farther  upon 
the  village.  When  they  saw  the  four  men, 
they  gave  a  mixed  chorus  of  cries  and  yells, 
and  some  of  them  stopped,  and  others  ran 
forward,  shaking  their  spears,  and  shooting 
their  broad  arrows  into  the  ground  before 
them.  A  tall,  gray-bearded,  muscular  old  man, 
with  a  skirt  of  feathers  about  him,  and  neck 
laces  of  bones  and  animals'  claws  around  his 
bare  chest,  ran  in  front  of  them,  and  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  make  them  approach  more  slowly. 

"Is  that  Messenwah ? "  asked  Gordon. 

"Yes,"  said  Stedman;  "he  is  trying  to  keep 
them  back.  I  don't  believe  he  ever  saw  a  white 
man  before." 

"Stedman,"  said  Albert,  speaking  quickly, 
"give  your  gun  to  Bradley,  and  go  forward 
with  your  arms  in  the  air,  and  waving  your 

286 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

handkerchief,  and  tell  them  in  their  language 
that  the  King  is  coming.  If  they  go  at  you, 
Bradley  and  I  will  kill  a  goat  or  two,  to  show 
them  what  we  can  do  with  the  rifles ;  and  if 
that  don't  stop  them,  we  will  shoot  at  their 
legs;  and  if  that  don't  stop  them — I  guess 
you'd  better  come  back,  and  we'll  all  run." 

Stedman  looked  at  Albert,  and  Albert  looked 
at  Stedman,  and  neither  of  them  winced  or 
flinched. 

"Is  this  another  of  my  secretary's  duties?" 
asked  the  younger  boy. 

"Yes,"  said  the  consul;  "but  a  resignation  is 
always  in  order.  You  needn't  go  if  you  don't 
like  it.  You  see,  you  know  the  language  and  I 
don't,  but  I  know  how  to  shoot,  and  you  don't." 

"That's  perfectly  satisfactory,"  said  Sted 
man,  handing  his  gun  to  old  Bradley.  "I  only 
wanted  to  know  why  I  was  to  be  sacrificed 
instead  of  one  of  the  Bradleys.  It's  because  I 
know  the  language.  Bradley,  Sr.,  you  see  the 
evil  results  of  a  higher  education.  Wish  me 
luck,  please,"  he  said,  "and  for  goodness* 
sake,"  he  added  impressively,  "don't  waste 
much  time  shooting  goats." 

The  Hillmen  had  stopped  about  two  hundred 
yards  off,  and  were  drawn  up  in  two  lines, 
shouting,  and  dancing,  and  hurling  taunting 
remarks  at  their  few  adversaries.  The  stolen 

287 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

cattle  were  bunched  together  back  of  the  King. 
As  Stedman  walked  steadily  forward  with  his 
handkerchief  fluttering,  and  howling  out  some 
thing  in  their  own  tongue,  they  stopped  and 
listened.  As  he  advanced,  his  three  companions 
followed  him  at  about  fifty  yards  in  the  rear. 
He  was  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  from  the 
Hillmen  before  they  made  out  what  he  said, 
and  then  one  of  the  young  braves,  resenting  it 
as  an  insult  to  his  chief,  shot  an  arrow  at  him. 
Stedman  dodged  the  arrow  and  stood  his  ground 
without  even  taking  a  step  backward,  only 
turning  slightly  to  put  his  hands  to  his  mouth, 
and  to  shout  something  which  sounded  to  his 
companions  like,  "About  time  to  begin  on  the 
goats."  But  the  instant  the  young  man  had 
fired,  King  Messenwah  swung  his  club  and 
knocked  him  down,  and  none  of  the  others 
moved.  Then  Messenwah  advanced  before  his 
men  to  meet  Stedman,  and  on  Stedman's 
opening  and  shutting  his  hands  to  show  that  he 
was  unarmed,  the  King  threw  down  his  club 
and  spears,  and  came  forward  as  empty-handed 
as  himself. 

"Ah,"  gasped  Bradley,  Jr.,  with  his  finger 
trembling  on  his  lever,  "let  me  take  a  shot  at 
him  now."  Gordon  struck  the  man's  gun  up, 
and  walked  forward  in  all  the  glory  of  his  gold 
and  blue  uniform;  for  both  he  and  Stedman 

288 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

saw  now  that  Messenwah  was  more  impressed 
by  their  appearance,  and  in  the  fact  that  they 
were  white  men,  than  with  any  threats  of 
immediate  war.  So  when  he  saluted  Gordon 
haughtily,  that  young  man  gave  him  a  haughty 
nod  in  return,  and  bade  Stedman  tell  the  King 
that  he  would  permit  him  to  sit  down.  The 
King  did  not  quite  appear  to  like  this,  but  he  sat 
down,  nevertheless,  and  nodded  his  head  gravely. 

"Now  tell  him,"  said  Gordon,  "that  I  come 
from  the  ruler  of  the  greatest  nation  on  earth, 
and  that  I  recognize  Ollypybus  as  the  only 
King  of  this  island,  and  that  I  come  to  this 
little  three-penny  King  with  either  peace  and 
presents,  or  bullets  and  war." 

"Have  I  got  to  tell  him  he's  a  little  three 
penny  King?"  said  Stedman,  plaintively. 

"No;  you  needn't  give  a  literal  translation; 
it  can  be  as  free  as  you  please." 

"Thanks,"  said  the  secretary,  humbly. 

"And  tell  him,"  continued  Gordon,  "that  we 
will  give  presents  to  him  and  his  warriors  if  he 
keeps  away  from  Ollypybus,  and  agrees  to  keep 
away  always.  If  he  won't  do  that,  try  to  get 
him  to  agree  to  stay  away  for  three  months  at 
least,  and  by  that  time  we  can  get  word  to  San 
Francisco,  and  have  a  dozen  muskets  over  here 
in  two  months;  and  when  our  time  of  proba 
tion  is  up,  and  he  and  his  merry  men  come 

289 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

dancing  down  the  hillside,  we  will  blow  them 
up  as  high  as  his  mountains.  But  you  needn't 
tell  him  that,  either.  And  if  he  is  proud  and 
haughty,  and  would  rather  fight,  ask  him  to 
restrain  himself  until  we  show  what  we  can  do 
with  our  weapons  at  two  hundred  yards." 

Stedman  seated  himself  in  the  long  grass  in 
front  of  the  King,  and  with  many  revolving 
gestures  of  his  arms,  and  much  pointing  to 
Gordon,  and  profound  nods  and  bows,  retold 
what  Gordon  had  dictated.  When  he  had 
finished,  the  King  looked  at  the  bundle  of 
presents,  and  at  the  guns,  of  which  Stedman 
had  given  a  very  wonderful  account,  but 
answered  nothing. 

"I  guess,"  said  Stedman,  with  a  sigh,  "that 
we  will  have  to  give  him  a  little  practical 
demonstration  to  help  matters.  I  am  sorry, 
but  I  think  one  of  those  goats  has  got  to  die. 
It's  like  vivisection.  The  lower  order  of  animals 
have  to  suffer  for  the  good  of  the  higher." 

"Oh,"  said  Bradley,  Jr.,  cheerfully,  "I'd  just 
as  soon  shoot  one  of  those  niggers  as  one  of  the 
goats." 

So  Stedman  bade  the  King  tell  his  men  to 
drive  a  goat  toward  them,  and  the  King  did  so, 
and  one  of  the  men  struck  one  of  the  goats  with 
his  spear,  and  it  ran  clumsily  across  the  plain. 

"Take  your  time,  Bradley,"  said  Gordon. 
290 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

"Aim  low,  and  if  you  hit  it,  you  can  have  it  for 
supper." 

"And  if  you  miss  it,"  said  Stedman,  gloomily, 
"Messenwah  may  have  us  for  supper." 

The  Hillmen  had  seated  themselves  a  hundred 
yards  off,  while  the  leaders  were  debating,  and 
they  now  rose  curiously  and  watched  Bradley, 
as  he  sank  upon  one  knee,  and  covered  the  goat 
with  his  rifle.  When  it  was  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  yards  off  he  fired,  and  the  goat  fell 
over  dead. 

And  then  all  the  Hillmen,  with  the  King  him 
self,  broke  away  on  a  run,  toward  the  dead 
animal,  with  much  shouting.  The  King  came 
back  alone,  leaving  his  people  standing  about 
and  examining  the  goat.  He  was  much  excited, 
and  talked  and  gesticulated  violently. 

"He  says — "  said  Stedman;  "he  says " 

"What?  yes,  go  on." 

"He  says — goodness  me ! — what  do  you  think 
he  says?" 

"Well,  what  does  he  say?"  cried  Gordon,  in 
great  excitement.  "Don't  keep  it  all  to  your 
self." 

"He  says,"  said  Stedman,  "that  we  are  de 
ceived;  that  he  is  no  longer  King  of  the  Island 
of  Opeki;  that  he  is  in  great  fear  of  us,  and 
that  he  has  got  himself  into  no  end  of  trouble. 
He  says  he  sees  that  we  are  indeed  mighty 

291 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

men,  that  to  us  he  is  as  helpless  as  the  wild 
boar  before  the  javelin  of  the  hunter." 

"Well,  he's  right,"  said  Gordon.     "Go  on." 

"But  that  which  we  ask  is  no  longer  his  to 
give.  He  has  sold  his  kingship  and  his  right 
to  this  island  to  another  king,  who  came  to  him 
two  days  ago  in  a  great  canoe,  and  who  made 
noises  as  we  do — with  guns,  I  suppose  he  means 
— and  to  whom  he  sold  the  island  for  a  watch 
that  he  has  in  a  bag  around  his  neck.  And 
that  he  signed  a  paper,  and  made  marks  on  a 
piece  of  bark,  to  show  that  he  gave  up  the 
island  freely  and  forever." 

"What  does  he  mean?"  said  Gordon.  "How 
can  he  give  up  the  island?  Ollypybus  is  the 
king  of  half  of  it,  anyway,  and  he  knows  it." 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Stedman.  "That's 
what  frightens  him.  He  said  he  didn't  care 
about  Ollypybus,  and  didn't  count  him  in  when 
he  made  the  treaty,  because  he  is  such  a  peace 
ful  chap  that  he  knew  he  could  thrash  him  into 
doing  anything  he  wanted  him  to  do.  And  now 
that  you  have  turned  up  and  taken  Ollypybus's 
part,  he  wishes  he  hadn't  sold  the  island,  and 
wishes  to  know  if  you  are  angry." 

"Angry?  of  course  I'm  angry,"  said  Gordon, 
glaring  as  grimly  at  the  frightened  monarch  as 
he  thought  was  safe.  "  Who  wouldn't  be  angry  ? 
Who  do  you  think  these  people  were  who  made 

292 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

a  fool  of  him,  Stedman?  Ask  him  to  let  us  see 
this  watch." 

Stedman  did  so,  and  the  King  fumbled  among 
his  necklaces  until  he  had  brought  out  a  leather 
bag  tied  round  his  neck  with  a  cord,  and  contain 
ing  a  plain  stem-winding  silver  watch  marked 
on  the  inside  "Munich." 

"That  doesn't  tell  anything,"  said  Gordon. 
"But  it's  plain  enough.  Some  foreign  ship  of 
war  has  settled  on  this  place  as  a  coaling-station, 
or  has  annexed  it  for  colonization,  and  they've 
sent  a  boat  ashore,  and  they've  made  a  treaty 
with  this  old  chap,  and  forced  him  to  sell  his 
birthright  for  a  mess  of  porridge.  Now,  that's 
just  like  those  monarchical  pirates,  imposing 
upon  a  poor  old  black." 

Old  Bradley  looked  at  him  impudently. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Gordon;  "it's  quite  dif 
ferent  with  us;  we  don't  want  to  rob  him  or 
Ollypybus,  or  to  annex  their  land.  All  we  want 
to  do  is  to  improve  it,  and  have  the  fun  of 
running  it  for  them  and  meddling  in  their 
affairs  of  state.  Well,  Stedman,"  he  said, 
"what  shall  we  do?" 

Stedman  said  that  the  best  and  only  thing  to 
do  was  to  threaten  to  take  the  watch  away  from 
Messenwah,  but  to  give  him  a  revolver  instead, 
which  would  make  a  friend  of  him  for  life,  and 
to  keep  him  supplied  with  cartridges  only  as 

293 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

long  as  he  behaved  himself,  and  then  to  make 
him  understand  that,  as  Ollypybus  had  not 
given  his  consent  to  the  loss  of  the  island, 
Messenwah's  agreement,  or  treaty,  or  whatever 
it  was,  did  not  stand,  and  that  he  had  better 
come  down  the  next  day,  early  in  the  morning, 
and  join  in  a  general  consultation.  This  was 
done,  and  Messenwah  agreed  willingly  to  their 
proposition,  and  was  given  his  revolver  and 
shown  how  to  shoot  it,  while  the  other  presents 
were  distributed  among  the  other  men,  who 
were  as  happy  over  them  as  girls  with  a  full 
dance-card. 

"And  now,  to-morrow,"  said  Stedman,  "un 
derstand,  you  are  all  to  come  down  unarmed,  and 
sign  a  treaty  with  great  Ollypybus,  in  which 
he  will  agree  to  keep  to  one-half  of  the  island 
if  you  keep  to  yours,  and  there  must  be  no 
more  wars  or  goat-stealing,  or  this  gentleman 
on  my  right  and  I  will  come  up  and  put  holes 
in  you  just  as  the  gentleman  on  the  left  did 
with  the  goat." 

Messenwah  and  his  warriors  promised  to 
come  early,  and  saluted  reverently  as  Gordon 
and  his  three  companions  walked  up  together 
very  proudly  and  stiffly. 

"Do  you  know  how  I  feel?"  said  Gordon. 

"How?"  asked  Stedman. 

"I  feel  as  I  used  to  do  in  the  city,  when  the 
294 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

boys  in  the  street  were  throwing  snowballs, 
and  I  had  to  go  by  with  a  high  hat  on  my  head 
and  pretend  not  to  know  they  were  behind  me. 
I  always  felt  a  cold  chill  down  my  spinal  column, 
and  I  could  feel  that  snowball,  whether  it  came 
or  not,  right  in  the  small  of  my  back.  And  I 
can  feel  one  of  those  men  pulling  his  bow  now, 
and  the  arrow  sticking  out  of  my  right  shoulder." 

"Oh,  no,  you  can't,"  said  Stedman.  "They 
are  too  much  afraid  of  those  rifles.  But  I  do 
feel  sorry  for  any  of  those  warriors  whom  old 
man  Messenwah  doesn't  like,  now  that  he  has 
that  revolver.  He  isn't  the  sort  to  practise 
on  goats." 

There  was  great  rejoicing  when  Stedman 
and  Gordon  told  their  story  to  the  King,  and 
the  people  learned  that  they  were  not  to  have 
their  huts  burned  and  their  cattle  stolen.  The 
armed  Opekians  formed  a  guard  around  the 
ambassadors  and  escorted  them  to  their  homes 
with  cheers  and  shouts,  and  the  women  ran  to 
their  side  and  tried  to  kiss  Gordon's  hand. 

"I'm  sorry  I  can't  speak  the  language,  Sted 
man,"  said  Gordon,  "or  I  would  tell  them  what 
a  brave  man  you  are.  You  are  too  modest  to 
do  it  yourself,  even  if  I  dictated  something  for 
you  to  say.  As  for  me,"  he  said,  pulling  off 
his  uniform,  "I  am  thoroughly  disgusted  and 
disappointed.  It  never  occurred  to  me  until 

295 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

it  was  all  over  that  this  was  my  chance  to  be  a 
war  correspondent.  It  wouldn't  have  been  much 
of  a  war,  but  then  I  would  have  been  the  only 
one  on  the  spot,  and  that  counts  for  a  great  deal. 
Still,  my  time  may  come." 

"We  have  a  great  deal  on  hand  for  to-mor 
row,"  said  Gordon  that  evening,  "and  we  had 
better  turn  in  early." 

And  so  the  people  were  still  singing  and 
rejoicing  down  in  the  village  when  the  two 
conspirators  for  the  peace  of  the  country  went 
to  sleep  for  the  night.  It  seemed  to  Gordon  as 
though  he  had  hardly  turned  his  pillow  twice 
to  get  the  coolest  side  when  some  one  touched 
him,  and  he  saw,  by  the  light  of  the  dozen  glow 
worms  in  the  tumbler  by  his  bedside,  a  tall 
figure  at  its  foot. 

"It's  me — Bradley,"  said  the  figure. 

"Yes,"  said  Gordon,  with  the  haste  of  a  man 
to  show  that  sleep  has  no  hold  on  him;  "exactly; 
what  is  it?" 

"There  is  a  ship  of  war  in  the  harbor,"  Brad 
ley  answered  in  a  whisper.  "I  heard  her 
anchor  chains  rattle  when  she  came  to,  and  that 
woke  me.  I  could  hear  that  if  I  were  dead. 
And  then  I  made  sure  by  her  lights;  she's  a 
great  boat,  sir,  and  I  can  know  she's  a  ship  of 
war  by  the  challenging  when  they  change  the 
watch.  I  thought  you'd  like  to  know,  sir." 

296 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

Gordon  sat  up  and  clutched  his  knees  with 
his  hands.  "Yes,  of  course,"  he  said;  "you 
are  quite  right.  Still,  I  don't  see  what  there 
is  to  do." 

He  did  not  wish  to  show  too  much  youthful 
interest,  but  though  fresh  from  civilization,  he 
had  learned  how  far  from  it  he  was,  and  he  was 
curious  to  see  this  sign  of  it  that  had  come 
so  much  more  quickly  than  he  had  antici 
pated. 

"Wake  Mr.  Stedman,  will  you?"  said  he, 
"and  we  will  go  and  take  a  look  at  her." 

"You  can  see  nothing  but  the  lights,"  said 
Bradley,  as  he  left  the  room;  "it's  a  black 
night,  sir." 

Stedman  was  not  new  from  the  sight  of  men 
and  ships  of  war,  and  came  in  half  dressed  and 
eager. 

"Do  you  suppose  it's  the  big  canoe  Messen- 
wah  spoke  of?"  he  said. 

"I  thought  of  that,"  said  Gordon. 

The  three  men  fumbled  their  way  down  the 
road  to  the  plaza,  and  saw,  as  soon  as  they 
turned  into  it,  the  great  outlines  and  the  bril 
liant  lights  of  an  immense  vessel,  still  more 
immense  in  the  darkness,  and  glowing  like  a 
strange  monster  of  the  sea,  with  just  a  sug 
gestion  here  and  there,  where  the  lights  spread, 
of  her  cabins  and  bridges.  As  they  stood  on 

297 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

the  shore,  shivering  in  the  cool  night-wind,  they 
heard  the  bells  strike  over  the  water. 

"It's  two  o'clock,"  said  Bradley,  counting. 

"Well,  we  can  do  nothing,  and  they  cannot 
mean  to  do  much  to-night,"  Albert  said.  "We 
had  better  get  some  more  sleep,  and,  Bradley, 
you  keep  watch  and  tell  us  as  soon  as  day 
breaks." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,"  said  the  sailor. 

"If  that's  the  man-of-war  that  made  the 
treaty  with  Messenwah,  and  Messenwah  turns 
up  to-morrow,  it  looks  as  if  our  day  would  be 
pretty  well  filled  up,"  said  Albert,  as  they  felt 
their  way  back  to  the  darkness. 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do?"  asked  his 
secretary,  with  a  voice  of  some  concern. 

"I  don't  know,"  Albert  answered  gravely, 
from  the  blackness  of  the  night.  "It  looks  as 
if  we  were  getting  ahead  just  a  little  too  fast, 
doesn't  it?  Well,"  he  added,  as  they  reached 
the  house,  "let's  try  to  keep  in  step  with  the 
procession,  even  if  we  can't  be  drum-majors 
and  walk  in  front  of  it."  And  with  this  cheering 
tone  of  confidence  in  their  ears,  the  two  diplo 
mats  went  soundly  asleep  again. 

The  light  of  the  rising  sun  filled  the  room,  and 
the  parrots  were  chattering  outside,  when  Brad 
ley  woke  him  again. 

"They  are  sending  a  boat  ashore,  sir,"  he 
298 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

said,  excitedly,  and  filled  with  the  importance 
of  the  occasion.  "  She's  a  German  man-of-war, 
and  one  of  the  new  model.  A  beautiful  boat, 
sir;  for  her  lines  were  laid  in  Glasgow,  and  I 
can  tell  that,  no  matter  what  flag  she  flies. 
You  had  best  be  moving  to  meet  them:  the 
village  isn't  awake  yet." 

Albert  took  a  cold  bath  and  dressed  leisurely; 
then  he  made  Bradley,  Jr.,  who  had  slept 
through  it  all,  get  up  breakfast,  and  the  two 
young  men  ate  it  and  drank  their  coffee  com 
fortably  and  with  an  air  of  confidence  that 
deceived  their  servants,  if  it  did  not  deceive 
themselves.  But  when  they  came  down  the 
path,  smoking  and  swinging  their  sticks,  and 
turned  into  the  plaza,  their  composure  left 
them  like  a  mask,  and  they  stopped  where  they 
stood.  The  plaza  was  enclosed  by  the  natives 
gathered  in  whispering  groups,  and  depressed 
by  fear  and  wonder.  On  one  side  were  crowded 
all  the  Messenwah  warriors,  unarmed,  and  as  si 
lent  and  disturbed  as  the  Opekians.  In  the  mid 
dle  of  the  plaza  some  twenty  sailors  were  busy 
rearing  and  bracing  a  tall  flag-staff  that  they 
had  shaped  from  a  royal  palm,  and  they  did  this 
as  unconcernedly  and  as  contemptuously,  and 
with  as  much  indifference  to  the  strange  groups 
on  either  side  of  them,  as  though  they  were 
working  on  a  barren  coast,  with  nothing  but 

299 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

the  startled  sea-gulls  about  them.  As  Albert 
and  Stedman  came  upon  the  scene,  the  flag 
pole  was  in  place,  and  the  halyards  hung  from 
it  with  a  little  bundle  of  bunting  at  the  end  of 
one  of  them. 

"We  must  find  the  King  at  once,"  said  Gor 
don.  He  was  terribly  excited  and  angry.  "It 
is  easy  enough  to  see  what  this  means.  They 
are  going  through  the  form  of  annexing  this 
island  to  the  other  lands  of  the  German  Govern 
ment.  They  are  robbing  old  Ollypybus  of 
what  is  his.  They  have  not  even  given  him  a 
silver  watch  for  it." 

The  King  was  in  his  bungalow,  facing  the 
plaza.  Messenwah  was  with  him,  and  an  equal 
number  of  each  of  their  councils.  The  common 
danger  had  made  them  lie  down  together  in 
peace;  but  they  gave  a  murmur  of  relief  as 
Gordon  strode  into  the  room  with  no  cere 
mony,  and  greeted  them  with  a  curt  wave  of 
the  hand. 

"Now  then,  Stedman,  be  quick,"  he  said. 
"Explain  to  them  what  this  means;  tell  them 
that  I  will  protect  them;  that  I  am  anxious  to 
see  that  Ollypybus  is  not  cheated;  that  we  will 
do  all  we  can  for  them." 

Outside,  on  the  shore,  a  second  boat's  crew 
had  landed  a  group  of  officers  and  a  file  of 
marines.  They  walked  in  all  the  dignity  of 

300 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

full  dress  across  the  plaza  to  the  flag-pole,  and 
formed  in  line  on  the  three  sides  of  it,  with 
the  marines  facing  the  sea.  The  officers,  from 
the  captain  with  a  prayer-book  in  his  hand,  to 
the  youngest  middy,  were  as  indifferent  to  the 
frightened  natives  about  them  as  the  other 
men  had  been.  The  natives,  awed  and  afraid, 
crouched  back  among  their  huts,  the  marines 
and  the  sailors  kept  their  eyes  front,  and  the 
German  captain  opened  his  prayer-book.  The 
debate  in  the  bungalow  was  over. 

"If  you  only  had  your  uniform,  sir,"  said 
Bradley,  Sr.,  miserably. 

"This  is  a  little  bit  too  serious  for  uniforms 
and  bicycle  medals/'  said  Gordon.  "And  these 
men  are  used  to  gold  lace." 

He  pushed  his  way  through  the  natives,  and 
stepped  confidently  across  the  plaza.  The 
youngest  middy  saw  him  coming,  and  nudged 
the  one  next  him  with  his  elbow,  and  he  nudged 
the  next,  but  none  of  the  officers  moved,  because 
the  captain  had  begun  to  read. 

"One  minute,  please/'  called  Gordon. 

He  stepped  out  into  the  hollow  square  formed 
by  the  marines,  and  raised  his  helmet  to  the 
captain. 

"Do  you  speak  English  or  French?"  Gordon 
said  in  French;  "I  do  not  understand  German." 

The  captain  lowered  the  book  in  his  hands 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

and  gazed  reflectively  at  Gordon  through  his 
spectacles,  and  made  no  reply. 

"If  I  understand  this,"  said  the  younger  man, 
trying  to  be  very  impressive  and  polite,  "you 
are  laying  claim  to  this  land,  in  behalf  of  the 
German  Government." 

The  captain  continued  to  observe  him 
thoughtfully,  and  then  said,  "That  iss  so," 
and  then  asked,  "Who  are  you?" 

"I  represent  the  King  of  this  island,  Olly- 
pybus,  whose  people  you  see  around  you.  I 
also  represent  the  United  States  Government, 
that  does  not  tolerate  a  foreign  power  near  her 
coast,  since  the  days  of  President  Monroe  and 
before.  The  treaty  you  have  made  with  Mes- 
senwah  is  an  absurdity.  There  is  only  one  king 
with  whom  to  treat,  and  he " 

The  captain  turned  to  one  of  his  officers  and 
said  something,  and  then,  after  giving  another 
curious  glance  at  Gordon,  raised  his  book  and 
continued  reading,  in  a  deep,  unruffled  mono 
tone.  The  officer  whispered  an  order,  and  two 
of  the  marines  stepped  out  of  line,  and  dropping 
the  muzzles  of  their  muskets,  pushed  Gordon 
back  out  of  the  enclosure,  and  left  him  there 
with  his  lips  white,  and  trembling  all  over  with 
indignation.  He  would  have  liked  to  have 
rushed  back  into  the  lines  and  broken  the  cap 
tain's  spectacles  over  his  sun-tanned  nose  and 

302 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

cheeks,  but  he  was  quite  sure  this  would  only 
result  in  his  getting  shot,  or  in  his  being  made 
ridiculous  before  the  natives,  which  was  almost 
as  bad;  so  he  stood  still  for  a  moment,  with  his 
blood  choking  him,  and  then  turned  and  walked 
back  to  where  the  King  and  Stedman  were 
whispering  together.  Just  as  he  turned,  one 
of  the  men  pulled  the  halyards,  the  ball  of 
bunting  ran  up  into  the  air,  bobbed,  twitched, 
and  turned,  and  broke  into  the  folds  of  the 
German  flag.  At  the  same  moment  the  marines 
raised  their  muskets  and  fired  a  volley,  and  the 
officers  saluted  and  the  sailors  cheered. 

"Do  you  see  that?"  cried  Stedman,  catching 
Gordon's  humor,  to  Ollypybus;  "that  means 
that  you  are  no  longer  king,  that  strange  people 
are  coming  here  to  take  your  land,  and  to  turn 
your  people  into  servants,  and  to  drive  you 
back  into  the  mountains.  Are  you  going  to 
submit?  are  you  going  to  let  that  flag  stay 
where  it  is?" 

Messenwah  and  Ollypybus  gazed  at  one 
another  with  fearful,  helpless  eyes.  "We  are 
afraid,"  Ollypybus  cried;  "we  do  not  know 
what  we  should  do." 

"What  do  they  say?" 

"They  say  they  do  not  know  what  to  do." 

"I  know  what  I'd  do,"  cried  Gordon.  "If  I 
were  not  an  American  consul,  I'd  pull  down 

303 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

their  old  flag,  and  put  a  hole  in  their  boat  and 
sink  her." 

"Well,  I'd  wait  until  they  get  under  way 
before  you  do  either  of  those  things,"  said 
Stedman,  soothingly.  "That  captain  seems  to 
be  a  man  of  much  determination  of  character." 

"But  I  will  pull  it  down,"  cried  Gordon. 
"I  will  resign,  as  Travis  did.  I  am  no  longer 
consul.  You  can  be  consul  if  you  want  to.  I 
promote  you.  I  am  going  up  a  step  higher. 
I  mean  to  be  king.  Tell  those  two,"  he  ran  on, 
excitedly,  "that  their  only  course  and  only 
hope  is  in  me;  that  they  must  make  me  ruler 
of  the  island  until  this  thing  is  over;  that  I 
will  resign  again  as  soon  as  it  is  settled,  but 
that  some  one  must  act  at  once,  and  if  they 
are  afraid  to,  I  am  not,  only  they  must  give  me 
authority  to  act  for  them.  They  must  abdicate 
in  my  favor." 

"Are  you  in  earnest?"  gasped  Stedman. 

"Don't  I  talk  as  if  I  were?"  demanded 
Gordon,  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  fore 
head. 

"And  can  I  be  consul?"  said  Stedman, 
cheerfully. 

"Of  course.  Tell  them  what  I  propose  to 
do." 

Stedman  turned  and  spoke  rapidly  to  the  two 
kings.  The  people  gathered  closer  to  hear. 

304 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

The  two  rival  monarchs  looked  at  one  another 
in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  both  began 
to  speak  at  once,  their  counsellors  interrupting 
them  and  mumbling  their  guttural  comments 
with  anxious  earnestness.  It  did  not  take  them 
very  long  to  see  that  they  were  all  of  one  mind, 
and  then  they  both  turned  to  Gordon  and 
dropped  on  one  knee,  and  placed  his  hands  on 
their  foreheads,  and  Stedman  raised  his  cap. 

"They  agree,"  he  explained,  for  it  was  but 
pantomime  to  Albert.  "They  salute  you  as  a 
ruler;  they  are  calling  you  Tellaman,  which 
means  peacemaker.  The  Peacemaker,  that  is 
your  title.  I  hope  you  will  deserve  it,  but  I 
think  they  might  have  chosen  a  more  appro 
priate  one." 

"Then  I'm  really  King?"  demanded  Albert, 
decidedly,  "and  I  can  do  what  I  please?  They 
give  me  full  power.  Quick,  do  they?" 

"Yes,  but  don't  do  it,"  begged  Stedman,  "and 
just  remember  I  am  American  consul  now,  and 
that  is  a  much  superior  being  to  a  crowned 
monarch;  you  said  so  yourself." 

Albert  did  not  reply  to  this,  but  ran  across 
the  plaza,  followed  by  the  two  Bradleys.  The 
boats  had  gone. 

"Hoist  that  flag  beside  the  brass  cannon,"  he 
cried,  "and  stand  ready  to  salute  it  when  I 
drop  this  one." 

305 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

Bradley,  Jr.,  grasped  the  halyards  of  the  flag, 
which  he  had  forgotten  to  raise  and  salute  in 
the  morning  in  all  the  excitement  of  the  arrival 
of  the  man-of-war.  Bradley,  Sr.,  stood  by  the 
brass  cannon,  blowing  gently  on  his  lighted 
fuse.  The  Peacemaker  took  the  halyards  of 
the  German  flag  in  his  two  hands,  gave  a  quick, 
sharp  tug,  and  down  came  the  red,  white,  and 
black  piece  of  bunting,  and  the  next  moment 
young  Bradley  sent  the  Stars  and  Stripes  up 
in  its  place.  As  it  rose,  Bradley's  brass  can 
non  barked  merrily  like  a  little  bull-dog,  and 
the  Peacemaker  cheered. 

"Why  don't  you  cheer,  Stedman?"  he 
shouted.  "Tell  those  people  to  cheer  for  all 
they  are  worth.  What  sort  of  an  American 
consul  are  you?" 

Stedman  raised  his  arm  half-heartedly  to 
give  the  time,  and  opened  his  mouth;  but  his 
arm  remained  fixed  and  his  mouth  open,  while 
his  eyes  stared  at  the  retreating  boat  of  the 
German  man-of-war.  In  the  stern  sheets  of 
this  boat  the  stout  German  captain  was  strug 
gling  unsteadily  to  his  feet;  he  raised  his  arm 
and  waved  it  to  some  one  on  the  great  man-of- 
war,  as  though  giving  an  order.  The  natives 
looked  from  Stedman  to  the  boat,  and  even  Gor 
don  stopped  in  his  cheering,  and  stood  motion 
less,  watching.  They  had  not  very  long  to 

306 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

wait.  There  was  a  puff  of  white  smoke,  and  a 
flash,  and  then  a  loud  report,  and  across  the 
water  came  a  great  black  ball  skipping  lightly 
through  and  over  the  waves,  as  easily  as  a  flat 
stone  thrown  by  a  boy.  It  seemed  to  come 
very  slowly.  At  least  it  came  slowly  enough 
for  every  one  to  see  that  it  was  coming  directly 
toward  the  brass  cannon.  The  Bradleys  cer 
tainly  saw  this,  for  they  ran  as  fast  as  they 
could,  and  kept  on  running.  The  ball  caught 
the  cannon  under  its  mouth  and  tossed  it  in 
the  air,  knocking  the  flag-pole  into  a  dozen 
pieces,  and  passing  on  through  two  of  the  palm- 
covered  huts. 

"Great  Heavens,  Gordon!"  cried  Stedman; 
"they  are  firing  on  us." 

But  Gordon's  face  was  radiant  and  wild. 

"Firing  on  us/"  he  cried.  "On  us!  Don't 
you  see?  Don't  you  understand?  What  do 
we  amount  to?  They  have  fired  on  the  Ameri 
can  flag !  Don't  you  see  what  that  means  ? 
It  means  war.  A  great  international  war. 
And  I  am  a  war  correspondent  at  last!"  He 
ran  up  to  Stedman  and  seized  him  by  the  arm 
so  tightly  that  it  hurt. 

"By  three  o'clock,"  he  said,  "they  will  know 
in  the  office  what  has  happened.  The  country 
will  know  it  to-morrow  when  the  paper  is  on 
the  street;  people  will  read  it  all  over  the  world. 

307 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

The  Emperor  will  hear  of  it  at  breakfast;  the 
President  will  cable  for  further  particulars.  He 
will  get  them.  It  is  the  chance  of  a  lifetime, 
and  we  are  on  the  spot!" 

Stedman  did  not  hear  this;  he  was  watching 
the  broadside  of  the  ship  to  see  another  puff  of 
white  smoke,  but  there  came  no  such  sign.  The 
two  row-boats  were  raised,  there  was  a  cloud  of 
black  smoke  from  the  funnel,  a  creaking  of 
chains  sounding  faintly  across  the  water,  and 
the  ship  started  at  half-speed  and  moved  out 
of  the  harbor.  The  Opekians  and  the  Hillmen 
fell  on  their  knees,  or  to  dancing,  as  best  suited 
their  sense  of  relief,  but  Gordon  shook  his  head. 

"They  are  only  going  to  land  the  marines," 
he  said;  "perhaps  they  are  going  to  the  spot 
they  stopped  at  before,  or  to  take  up  another 
position  farther  out  at  sea.  They  will  land 
men  and  then  shell  the  town,  and  the  land 
forces  will  march  here  and  co-operate  with  the 
vessel,  and  everybody  will  be  taken  prisoner  or 
killed.  We  have  the  centre  of  the  stage,  and 
we  are  making  history." 

"I'd  rather  read  it  than  make  it,"  said  Sted 
man.  "You've  got  us  in  a  senseless,  silly 
position,  Gordon,  and  a  mighty  unpleasant  one. 
And  for  no  reason  that  I  can  see,  except  to 
make  copy  for  your  paper." 

"Tell  those  people  to  get  their  things  to- 
308 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

gether,"  said  Gordon,  "and  march  back  out  of 
danger  into  the  woods.  Tell  Ollypybus  I  am 
going  to  fix  things  all  right;  I  don't  know  just 
how  yet,  but  I  will,  and  now  come  after  me  as 
quickly  as  you  can  to  the  cable  office.  I've 
got  to  tell  the  paper  all  about  it." 

It  was  three  o'clock  before  the  "chap  at 
Octavia"  answered  Stedman's  signalling.  Then 
Stedman  delivered  Gordon's  message,  and  im 
mediately  shut  off  all  connection,  before  the 
Octavia  operator  could  question  him.  Gordon 
dictated  his  message  in  this  way: — 

"Begin  with  the  date  line,  'Opeki,  June  22.' 
"At  seven  o'clock  this  morning,  the  captain 
and  officers  of  the  German  man-of-war  Kaiser 
went  through  the  ceremony  of  annexing  this 
island  in  the  name  of  the  German  Emperor, 
basing  their  right  to  do  so  on  an  agreement 
made  with  a  leader  of  a  wandering  tribe  known 
as  the  Hillmen.  King  Ollypybus,  the  present 
monarch  of  Opeki,  delegated  his  authority,  as 
also  did  the  leader  of  the  Hillmen,  to  King 
Tellaman,  or  the  Peacemaker,  who  tore  down 
the  German  flag,  and  raised  that  of  the  United 
States  in  its  place.  At  the  same  moment  the 
flag  was  saluted  by  the  battery.  This  salute, 
being  mistaken  for  an  attack  on  the  Kaiser, 
was  answered  by  that  vessel.  Her  first  shot  took 
immediate  effect,  completely  destroying  the 

309 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

entire  battery  of  the  Opekians,  cutting  down 
the  American  flag,  and  destroying  the  houses 
of  the  people " 

"There  was  only  one  brass  cannon  and  two 
huts,"  expostulated  Stedman. 

"Well,  that  was  the  whole  battery,  wasn't 
it?"  asked  Gordon,  "and  two  huts  is  plural. 
I  said  houses  of  the  people.  I  couldn't  say 
two  houses  of  the  people.  Just  you  send  this 
as  you  get  it.  You  are  not  an  American  consul 
at  the  present  moment.  You  are  an  under-paid 
agent  of  a  cable  company,  and  you  send  my 
stuff  as  I  write  it.  The  American  residents 
have  taken  refuge  in  the  consulate — that's  us," 
explained  Gordon,  "  and  the  English  residents 
have  sought  refuge  in  the  woods — that's  the 
Bradleys.  King  Tellaman — that's  me — declares 
his  intention  of  fighting  against  the  annexation. 
The  forces  of  the  Opekians  are  under  the  com 
mand  of  Captain  Thomas  Bradley — I  guess  I 
might  as  well  make  him  a  colonel — of  Colonel 
Thomas  Bradley,  of  the  English  army. 

"  The  American  consul  says —  Now,  what  do 
you  say,  Stedman?  Hurry  up,  please,"  asked 
Gordon,  "and  say  something  good  and  strong." 

"You  get  me  all  mixed  up,"  complained 
Stedman,  plaintively.  "Which  am  I  now,  a 
cable  operator  or  the  American  consul?" 

"Consul,  of  course.  Say  something  patriotic 
310 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

and  about  your  determination  to  protect  the 
interests  of  your  government,  and  all  that." 
Gordon  bit  the  end  of  his  pencil  impatiently, 
and  waited. 

"I  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort,  Gordon," 
said  Stedman;  "you  are  getting  me  into  an 
awful  lot  of  trouble,  and  yourself  too.  I  won't 
say  a  word." 

"The  American  consul,"  read  Gordon,  as 
his  pencil  wriggled  across  the  paper,  "refuses 
to  say  anything  for  publication  until  he  has 
communicated  with  the  authorities  at  Washing 
ton,  but  from  all  I  can  learn  he  sympathizes 
entirely  with  Tellaman.  Your  correspondent 
has  just  returned  from  an  audience  with  King 
Tellaman,  who  asks  him  to  inform  the  American 
people  that  the  Monroe  doctrine  will  be  sustained 
as  long  as  he  rules  this  island.  I  guess  that's 
enough  to  begin  with,"  said  Gordon.  "Now 
send  that  off  quick,  and  then  get  away  from  the 
instrument  before  the  man  in  Octavia  begins 
to  ask  questions.  I  am  going  out  to  precipitate 
matters." 

Gordon  found  the  two  kings  sitting  dejectedly 
side  by  side,  and  gazing  grimly  upon  the  dis 
order  of  the  village,  from  which  the  people 
were  taking  their  leave  as  quickly  as  they  could 
get  their  few  belongings  piled  upon  the  ox-carts. 
Gordon  walked  among  them,  helping  them  in 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

every  way  he  could,  and  tasting,  in  their  subser 
vience  and  gratitude,  the  sweets  of  sovereignty. 
When  Stedman  had  locked  up  the  cable  office 
and  rejoined  him,  he  bade  him  tell  Messenwah 
to  send  three  of  his  youngest  men  and  fastest 
runners  back  to  the  hills  to  watch  for  the 
German  vessel  and  see  where  she  was  attempting 
to  land  her  marines. 

"This  is  a  tremendous  chance  for  descriptive 
writing,  Stedman,"  said  Gordon,  enthusias 
tically;  "all  this  confusion  and  excitement,  and 
the  people  leaving  their  homes,  and  all  that. 
It's  like  the  people  getting  out  of  Brussels  before 
Waterloo,  and  then  the  scene  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountains,  while  they  are  camping  out  there, 
until  the  Germans  leave.  I  never  had  a  chance 
like  this  before." 

It  was  quite  dark  by  six  o'clock,  and  none  of 
the  three  messengers  had  as  yet  returned. 
Gordon  walked  up  and  down  the  empty  plaza 
and  looked  now  at  the  horizon  for  the  man-of- 
war,  and  again  down  the  road  back  of  the 
village.  But  neither  the  vessel  nor  the  messen 
gers  bearing  word  of  her  appeared.  The  night 
passed  without  any  incident,  and  in  the  morning 
Gordon's  impatience  became  so  great  that  he 
walked  out  to  where  the  villagers  were  in  camp 
and  passed  on  half  way  up  the  mountain,  but 
he  could  see  no  sign  of  the  man-of-war.  He 

312 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

came  back  more  restless  than  before,  and  keenly 
disappointed. 

"If  something  don't  happen  before  three 
o'clock,  Stedman,"  he  said,  "our  second  cable 
gram  will  have  to  consist  of  glittering  generali 
ties  and  a  lengthy  interview  with  King  Tellaman, 
by  himself." 

Nothing  did  happen.  Ollypybus  and  Messen- 
wah  began  to  breathe  more  freely.  They  be 
lieved  the  new  king  had  succeeded  in  frightening 
the  German  vessel  away  forever.  But  the  new 
king  upset  their  hopes  by  telling  them  that  the 
Germans  had  undoubtedly  already  landed,  and 
had  probably  killed  the  three  messengers. 

"Now  then,"  he  said,  with  pleased  expecta 
tion,  as  Stedman  and  he  seated  themselves  in 
the  cable  office  at  three  o'clock,  "open  it  up 
and  let's  find  out  what  sort  of  an  impression 
we  have  made." 

Sted  man's  face,  as  the  answer  came  in  to  his 
first  message  of  greeting,  was  one  of  strangely 
marked  disapproval. 

"What  does  he  say?"  demanded  Gordon, 
anxiously. 

"He  hasn't  done  anything  but  swear  yet," 
answered  Stedman,  grimly. 

"What  is  he  swearing  about?" 

"He  wants  to  know  why  I  left  the  cable 
yesterday.  He  says  he  has  been  trying  to  call 

313 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

me  up  for  the  last  twenty-four  hours,  ever 
since  I  sent  my  message  at  three  o'clock.  The 
home  office  is  jumping  mad,  and  want  me 
discharged.  They  won't  do  that,  though,"  he 
said,  in  a  cheerful  aside,  "because  they  haven't 
paid  me  my  salary  for  the  last  eight  months. 
He  says — great  Scott !  this  will  please  you, 
Gordon — he  says  that  there  have  been  over 
two  hundred  queries  for  matter  from  papers  all 
over  the  United  States,  and  from  Europe. 
Your  paper  beat  them  on  the  news,  and  now 
the  home  office  is  packed  with  San  Francisco 
reporters,  and  the  telegrams  are  coming  in 
every  minute,  and  they  have  been  abusing 
him  for  not  answering  them,  and  he  says  that 
I'm  a  fool.  He  wants  as  much  as  you  can  send, 
and  all  the  details.  He  says  all  the  papers 
will  have  to  put  'By  Yokohama  Cable  Com 
pany'  on  the  top  of  each  message  they  print, 
and  that  that  is  advertising  the  company,  and 
is  sending  the  stock  up.  It  rose  fifteen  points 
on  'change  in  San  Francisco  to-day,  and  the 

president  and  the  other  officers  are  buying " 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  their  old 
company,"  snapped  out  Gordon,  pacing  up 
and  down  in  despair.  "What  am  I  to  do? 
that's  what  I  want  to  know.  Here  I  have  the 
whole  country  stirred  up  and  begging  for  news. 
On  their  knees  for  it,  and  a  cable  all  to  myself, 

314 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

and  the  only  man  on  the  spot,  and  nothing  to 
say.  I'd  just  like  to  know  how  long  that  Ger 
man  idiot  intends  to  wait  before  he  begins  shell 
ing  this  town  and  killing  people.  He  has  put 
me  in  a  most  absurd  position." 

"Here's  a  message  for  you,  Gordon,"  said 
Stedman,  with  business-like  calm.  "Albert 
Gordon,  correspondent,"  he  read.  "Try  Ameri 
can  consul.  First  message  O.  K.;  beat  the 
country;  can  take  all  you  send.  Give  names 
of  foreign  residents  massacred,  and  fuller  ac 
count  blowing  up  palace.  Dodge." 

The  expression  on  Gordon's  face  as  this  mes 
sage  was  slowly  read  off  to  him,  had  changed 
from  one  of  gratified  pride  to  one  of  puzzled 
consternation. 

"What's  he  mean  by  foreign  residents  massa 
cred,  and  blowing  up  of  palace?"  asked  Sted 
man,  looking  over  his  shoulder  anxiously.  "  Who 
is  Dodge?" 

"Dodge  is  the  night  editor,"  said  Gordon, 
nervously.  "They  must  have  read  my  message 
wrong.  You  sent  just  what  I  gave  you,  didn't 
you?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course  I  did,"  said  Stedman,  indig 
nantly. 

"I  didn't  say  anything  about  the  massacre 
of  anybody,  did  I?"  asked  Gordon.  "I  hope 
they  are  not  improving  on  my  account.  What 

315 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

am  I  to  do?  This  is  getting  awful.  I'll  have 
to  go  out  and  kill  a  few  people  myself.  Oh, 
why  don't  that  Dutch  captain  begin  to  do 
something !  What  sort  of  a  fighter  does  he 
call  himself?  He  wouldn't  shoot  at  a  school  of 
porpoises.  He's  not " 

"  Here  comes  a  message  to  Leonard  T.  Travis, 
American  consul,  Opeki,"  read  Stedman.  "It's 
raining  messages  to-day.  'Send  full  details  of 
massacre  of  American  citizens  by  German 
sailors.'  Secretary  of — great  Scott!"  gasped 
Stedman,  interrupting  himself  and  gazing  at 
his  instrument  with  horrified  fascination — "the 
Secretary  of  State." 

"That  settles  it,"  roared  Gordon,  pulling  at 
his  hair  and  burying  his  face  in  his  hands.  "  I 
have  got  to  kill  some  of  them  now." 

"Albert  Gordon,  correspondent,"  read  Sted 
man,  impressively,  like  the  voice  of  Fate.  "Is 
Colonel  Thomas  Bradley,  commanding  native 
forces  at  Opeki,  Colonel  Sir  Thomas  Kent- 
Bradley  of  Crimean  war  fame?  Correspondent 
London  Times,  San  Francisco  Press  Club." 

"Go  on,  go  on!"  said  Gordon,  desperately. 
"I'm  getting  used  to  it  now.  Go  on!" 

"American  consul,  Opeki,"  read  Stedman. 
"Home  Secretary  desires  you  to  furnish  list  of 
names  English  residents  killed  during  shelling 
of  Opeki  by  ship  of  war  Kaiser,  and  estimate  of 

316 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

amount  property  destroyed.  Stoughton,  Brit 
ish  Embassy,  Washington." 

"Stedman!"  cried  Gordon,  jumping  to  his 
feet,  "there's  a  mistake  here  somewhere.  These 
people  cannot  all  have  made  my  message  read 
like  that.  Some  one  has  altered  it,  and  now  I 
have  got  to  make  these  people  here  live  up  to 
that  message,  whether  they  like  being  mas 
sacred  and  blown  up  or  not.  Don't  answer  any 
of  those  messages  except  the  one  from  Dodge; 
tell  him  things  have  quieted  down  a  bit,  and 
that  I'll  send  four  thousand  words  on  the  flight 
of  the  natives  from  the  village,  and  their  en 
campment  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  and  of 
the  exploring  party  we  have  sent  out  to  look 
for  the  German  vessel;  and  now  I  am  going 
out  to  make  something  happen." 

Gordon  said  that  he  would  be  gone  for  two 
hours  at  least,  and  as  Stedman  did  not  feel 
capable  of  receiving  any  more  nerve-stirring 
messages,  he  cut  off  all  connection  with  Octavia 
by  saying,  "Good-by  for  two  hours,"  and  run 
ning  away  from  the  office.  He  sat  down  on  a 
rock  on  the  beach,  and  mopped  his  face  with 
his  handkerchief. 

"After  a  maji  has  taken  nothing  more  exciting 
than  weather  reports  from  Octavia  for  a  year," 
he  soliloquized,  "it's  a  bit  disturbing  to  have 
all  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe  and  their 

317 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

secretaries  calling  upon  you  for  details  of  a 
massacre  that  never  came  off." 

At  the  end  of  two  hours  Gordon  returned 
from  the  consulate  with  a  mass  of  manuscript 
in  his  hand. 

"Here's  three  thousand  words,"  he  said, 
desperately.  "I  never  wrote  more  and  said 
less  in  my  life.  It  will  make  them  weep  at  the 
office.  I  had  to  pretend  that  they  knew  all 
that  had  happened  so  far;  they  apparently  do 
know  more  than  we  do,  and  I  have  filled  it  full 
of  prophecies  of  more  trouble  ahead,  and  with 
interviews  with  myself  and  the  two  ex-Kings. 
The  only  news  element  in  it  is,  that  the  mes 
sengers  have  returned  to  report  that  the  German 
vessel  is  not  in  sight,  and  that  there  is  no  news. 
They  think  she  has  gone  for  good.  Suppose 
she  has,  Stedman,"  he  groaned,  looking  at  him 
helplessly,  "what  am  I  going  to  do?" 

"Well,  as  for  me,"  said  Stedman,  "I'm  afraid 
to  go  near  that  cable.  It's  like  playing  with  a 
live  wire.  My  nervous  system  won't  stand 
many  more  such  shocks  as  those  they  gave  us 
this  afternoon." 

Gordon  threw  himself  down  dejectedly  in  a 
chair  in  the  office,  and  Stedman  approached 
his  instrument  gingerly,  as  though  it  might 
explode. 

"He's  swearing  again,"  he  explained,  sadly, 

318 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

in  answer  to  Gordon's  look  of  inquiry.  "He 
wants  to  know  when  I  am  going  to  stop  running 
away  from  the  wire.  He  has  a  stack  of  messages 
to  send,  he  says,  but  I  guess  he'd  better  wait 
and  take  your  copy  first;  don't  you  think  so?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Gordon.  "I  don't  want 
any  more  messages  than  I've  had.  That's  the 
best  I  can  do,"  he  said,  as  he  threw  his  manu 
script  down  beside  Stedman.  "And  they  can 
keep  on  cabling  until  the  wire  burns  red  hot,  and 
they  won't  get  any  more." 

There  was  silence  in  the  office  for  some  time, 
while  Stedman  looked  over  Gordon's  copy,  and 
Gordon  stared  dejectedly  out  at  the  ocean. 

"This  is  pretty  poor  stuff,  Gordon,"  said 
Stedman.  "It's  like  giving  people  milk  when 
they  want  brandy." 

"Don't  you  suppose  I  know  that?"  growled 
Gordon.  "It's  the  best  I  can  do,  isn't  it? 
It's  not  my  fault  that  we  are  not  all  dead  now. 
I  can't  massacre  foreign  residents  if  there  are 
no  foreign  residents,  but  I  can  commit  suicide, 
though,  and  I'll  do  it  if  something  don't  happen." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  in  which  the  silence 
of  the  office  was  only  broken  by  the  sound  of 
the  waves  beating  on  the  coral  reefs  outside. 
Stedman  raised  his  head  wearily. 

"He's  swearing  again,"  he  said;  "he  says  this 
stuff  of  yours  is  all  nonsense.  He  says  stock  in 

319 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

the  Y.  C.  C.  has  gone  up  to  one  hundred  and 
two,  and  that  owners  are  unloading  and  making 
their  fortunes,  and  that  this  sort  of  descriptive 
writing  is  not  what  the  company  want." 

"What's  he  think  I'm  here  for?"  cried  Gor 
don.  "Does  he  think  I  pulled  down  the  Ger 
man  flag  and  risked  my  neck  half  a  dozen  times 
and  had  myself  made  King  just  to  boom  his 
Yokohama  cable  stock?  Confound  him!  You 
might  at  least  swear  back.  Tell  him  just  what 
the  situation  is  in  a  few  words.  Here,  stop 
that  rigmarole  to  the  paper,  and  explain  to 
your  home  office  that  we  are  awaiting  develop 
ments,  and  that,  in  the  meanwhile,  they  must 
put  up  with  the  best  we  can  send  them.  Wait; 
send  this  to  Octavia." 

Gordon  wrote  rapidly,  and  read  what  he  wrote 
as  rapidly  as  it  was  written. 

"Operator,  Octavia.  You  seem  to  have  mis 
understood  my  first  message.  The  facts  in  the 
case  are  these.  A  German  man-of-war  raised 
a  flag  on  this  island.  It  was  pulled  down  and 
the  American  flag  raised  in  its  place  and  saluted 
by  a  brass  cannon.  The  German  man-of-war 
fired  once  at  the  flag  and  knocked  it  down,  and 
then  steamed  away  and  has  not  been  seen  since. 
Two  huts  were  upset,  that  is  all  the  damage 
done;  the  battery  consisted  of  the  one  brass 
cannon  before  mentioned.  No  one,  either  na- 

320 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

tive  or  foreign,  has  been  massacred.  The 
English  residents  are  two  sailors.  The  Ameri 
can  residents  are  the  young  man  who  is  sending 
you  this  cable  and  myself.  Our  first  message 
was  quite  true  in  substance,  but  perhaps  mis 
leading  in  detail.  I  made  it  so  because  I  fully 
expected  much  more  to  happen  immediately. 
Nothing  has  happened,  or  seems  likely  to  hap 
pen,  and  that  is  the  exact  situation  up  to  date. 
Albert  Gordon." 

"Now,"  he  asked,  after  a  pause,  "what  does 
he  say  to  that?" 

"He  doesn't  say  anything,"  said  Stedman. 

"I  guess  he  has  fainted.  Here  it  comes,"  he 
added  in  the  same  breath.  He  bent  toward  his 
instrument,  and  Gordon  raised  himself  from 
his  chair  and  stood  beside  him  as  he  read  it  off. 
The  two  young  men  hardly  breathed  in  the 
intensity  of  their  interest. 

"Dear  Stedman,"  he  slowly  read  aloud. 
"You  and  your  young  friend  are  a  couple  of 
fools.  If  you  had  allowed  me  to  send  you  the 
messages  awaiting  transmission  here  to  you, 
you  would  not  have  sent  me  such  a  confession 
of  guilt  as  you  have  just  done.  You  had  better 
leave  Opeki  at  once  or  hide  in  the  hills.  I  am 
afraid  I  have  placed  you  in  a  somewhat  com 
promising  position  with  the  company,  which 
is  unfortunate,  especially  as,  if  I  am  not  mis- 

321 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

taken,  they  owe  you  some  back  pay.  You 
should  have  been  wiser  in  your  day,  and  bought 
Y.  C.  C.  stock  when  it  was  down  to  five  cents, 
as  *  yours  truly*  did.  You  are  not,  Stedman, 
as  bright  a  boy  as  some.  And  as  for  your 
friend,  the  war  correspondent,  he  has  queered 
himself  for  life.  You  see,  my  dear  Stedman, 
after  I  had  sent  off  your  first  message,  and 
demands  for  further  details  came  pouring  in, 
and  I  could  not  get  you  at  the  wire  to  supply 
them,  I  took  the  liberty  of  sending  some  on 
myself." 

"Great  Heavens!"  gasped  Gordon. 

Stedman  grew  very  white  under  his  tan,  and 
the  perspiration  rolled  on  his  cheeks. 

"Your  message  was  so  general  in  its  nature, 
that  it  allowed  my  imagination  full  play,  and 
I  sent  on  what  I  thought  would  please  the 
papers,  and,  what  was  much  more  important 
to  me,  would  advertise  the  Y.  C.  C.  stock. 
This  I  have  been  doing  while  waiting  for  mate 
rial  from  you.  Not  having  a  clear  idea  of  the 
dimensions  or  population  of  Opeki,  it  is  possible 
that  I  have  done  you  and  your  newspaper  friend 
some  injustice.  I  killed  off  about  a  hundred 
American  residents,  two  hundred  English,  be 
cause  I  do  not  like  the  English,  and  a  hundred 
French.  I  blew  up  old  Ollypybus  and  his 
palace  with  dynamite,  and  shelled  the  city, 

322 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

destroying  some  hundred  thousand  dollars' 
worth  of  property,  and  then  I  waited  anxiously 
for  your  friend  to  substantiate  what  I  had  said. 
This  he  has  most  unkindly  failed  to  do.  I  am 
very  sorry,  but  much  more  so  for  him  than  for 
myself,  for  I,  my  dear  friend,  have  cabled  on  to 
a  man  in  San  Francisco,  who  is  one  of  the  di 
rectors  of  the  Y.  C.  C.,  to  sell  all  my  stock, 
which  he  has  done  at  one  hundred  and  two, 
and  he  is  keeping  the  money  until  I  come. 
And  I  leave  Octavia  this  afternoon  to  reap  my 
just  reward.  I  am  in  about  twenty  thousand 
dollars  on  your  little  war,  and  I  feel  grateful. 
So  much  so  that  I  will  inform  you  that  the  ship 
of  war  Kaiser  has  arrived  at  San  Francisco, 
for  which  port  she  sailed  directly  from  Opeki. 
Her  captain  has  explained  the  real  situation, 
and  offered  to  make  every  amend  for  the  acci 
dental  indignity  shown  to  our  flag.  He  says 
he  aimed  at  the  cannon,  which  was  trained  on 
his  vessel,  and  which  had  first  fired  on  him. 
But  you  must  know,  my  dear  Stedman,  that 
before  his  arrival,  war-vessels  belonging  to  the 
several  powers  mentioned  in  my  revised  des 
patches,  had  started  for  Opeki  at  full  speed, 
to  revenge  the  butchery  of  the  foreign  residents. 
A  word,  my  dear  young  friend,  to  the  wise  is 
sufficient.  I  am  indebted  to  you  to  the  extent 
of  twenty  thousand  dollars,  and  in  return  I 

323 


THE  REPORTER  WHO 

give  you  this  kindly  advice.  Leave  Opeki. 
If  there  is  no  other  way,  swim.  But  leave 
Opeki." 

The  sun,  that  night,  as  it  sank  below  the  line 
where  the  clouds  seemed  to  touch  the  sea, 
merged  them  both  into  a  blazing,  blood-red 
curtain,  and  colored  the  most  wonderful  specta 
cle  that  the  natives  of  Opeki  had  ever  seen. 
Six*  great  ships  of  war,  stretching  out  over  a 
league  of  sea,  stood  blackly  out  against  the  red 
background,  rolling  and  rising,  and  leaping 
forward,  flinging  back  smoke  and  burning  sparks 
up  into  the  air  behind  them,  and  throbbing 
and  panting  like  living  creatures  in  their  race 
for  revenge.  From  the  south  came  a  three- 
decked  vessel,  a  great  island  of  floating  steel, 
with  a  flag  as  red  as  the  angry  sky  behind  it, 
snapping  in  the  wind.  To  the  south  of  it 
plunged  two  long  low-lying  torpedo-boats,  flying 
the  French  tri-color,  and  still  farther  to  the 
north  towered  three  magnificent  hulls  of  the 
White  Squadron.  Vengeance  was  written  on 
every  curve  and  line,  on  each  straining  engine- 
rod,  and  on  each  polished  gun-muzzle. 

And  in  front  of  these,  a  clumsy  fishing-boat 
rose  and  fell  on  each  passing  wave.  Two 
sailors  sat  in  the  stern,  holding  the  rope  and 
tiller,  and  in  the  bow,  with  their  backs  turned 
forever  toward  Opeki,  stood  two  young  boys, 


MADE  HIMSELF  KING 

their  faces  lit  by  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun  and 
stirred  by  the  sight  of  the  great  engines  of  war 
plunging  past  them  on  their  errand  of  vengeance. 
"Stedman,"  said  the  elder  boy,  in  an  awe 
struck  whisper,  and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand, 
"we  have  not  lived  in  vain." 


325 


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